El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

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EL DORADO
BARONESS ORCZY

Bv BARONESS ORCZY

Meadowiwset

A Nobi.k Rocvi

Petticoat Rule

The Heart of a Womah

GEO. H. DORAN COMPANY

rUBLKHEU KEW Tl

EL DORADO

AN ADVENTURE OF THE
SCARLET PIMPERNEL

I

BY

BARONESS pRCZY,

AUTHOR OP "THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL, " "MEADOWSWEET,

u

• » (f

THE WOBLE ROGUE, "PETTICOAT RULE/ ETC.

HODDER & STOUGHTON

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

C • * } * -

mm rai

PUBLIC LIBEA1T

612616B

Copyritflt, 191 j
By Geo«ce H. Dokah Compact

FOREWORD

There has of late years crept so much confusion into the
mind of the student as well as of the general reader as to
the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel with that of the Gascon
Royalist plotter known to history as the Baron de Batz, that
the time seems opportune for setting all doubts on that sub-
ject at rest.

The identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel is in no way what-
ever connected with that of the Baron de Batz, and even
superficial reflection will soon bring the mind to the con-
clusion that great fundamental differences existed in these
two men, in their personality, in their character, and, above
all, in their aims.

According to one or two enthusiastic historians, the
Baron de Batz was the chief agent in a vast network of
conspiracy, entirely supported by foreign money — both
English and Austrian — and which had for its object the
overthrow of the Republican Government and the restora-
tion of the monarchy in France.

In order to attain this political goal, it is averred that he
set himself the task of pitting the members of the revolu-
tionary Government one against the other, and bringing
hatred and dissensions amongst them, until the cry of
"Traitor!" resounded from one end of the Assembly of
the Convention to the other, and the Assembly itself became
as one vast den of wild beasts wherein wolves and hyenas
devoured one another and, still unsatiated, licked their
streaming jaws hungering for more prey.

Those same enthusiastic historians, who have a firm belief

vi FOREWORD

in the so-called " Foreign Conspiracy," ascribe every im-
portant event of the Great Revolution — be that event the
downfall of the Girondins, the escape of the Dauphin from
the Temple, or the death of Robespierre — to the intrigues
of Baron de Batz. He it was, so they say, who egged the
Jacobins on against the Mountain, Robespierre against Dan-
ton, Hebert against Robespierre. He it was who instigated
the massacres of September, the atrocities of Nantes, the
horrors of Thermidor, the sacrileges, the noyades; all with
the view of causing every section of the National Assembly
to vie with the other in excesses and in cruelty, until the
makers of the Revolution, satiated with their own lust,
turned on one another, and Sardanapalus-like buried them-
selves and their orgies in the vast hecatomb of a self-con-
sumed anarchy.

Whether the power thus ascribed to Baron de Batz by
his historians is real or imaginary it is not the purpose of
this preface to investigate. Its sole object is to point out
the difference between the career of this plotter and that
of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The Baron de Batz himself was an adventurer without
substance, save that which he derived from abroad. He
was one of those men who have nothing to lose and every-
thing to gain by throwing themselves headlong in the seeth-
ing cauldron of internal politics. Though he made several
attempts at rescuing King Louis first, and then the Queen
and Royal Family from prison and from death, he never
succeeded, as we know, in any of these undertakings, and
he never once so much as attempted the rescue of other
equally innocent, if not quite so distinguished, victims of
the most bloodthirsty revolution that has ever shaken the
foundations of the civilised world.

Nay more ; when on the 29th Prairial those unfortunate

mm

FOREWORD vii

men and women were condemned and executed for alleged
complicity in the so-called " Foreign Conspiracy," de Batz,
who is universally admitted to have been the head and prime-
mover of that conspiracy — if, indeed, conspiracy there was
— never made either the slightest attempt to rescue his
confederates from the guillotine, or at least the offer to
perish by their side if he could not succeed in saving them.

And when we remember that the martyrs of the 29th
Prairial included women like Grandmaison, the devoted
friend of de Batz, the beautiful fimilie de St. Amaranthe,
little Cecile Renault — a mere child not sixteen years of
age — also men like Michonis and Roussell, faithful serv-
ants of de Batz, the Baron de Lezardiere, and the Comte
de St. Maurice, his friends, we no longer can have the slight-

_ •

est doubt that the Gascon plotter and the English gentleman
are indeed two very different persons.

The latter's aims were absolutely non-political. He never
intrigued for the restoration of the monarchy, or even for
the overthrow of that Republic which he loathed.

His only concern was the rescue of the innocent, the
stretching out of a saving hand to those unfortunate
creatures who had fallen into the nets spread out for them
by their fellow-men; by those who — godless, lawless,
penniless themselves — had sworn to exterminate all those
who clung to their belongings, to their religion, and to their
beliefs.

The Scarlet Pimpernel did not take it upon himself to
punish the guilty; his care was solely of the helpless and
of the innocent.

For this aim he risked his life every time that he set
foot on French soil, for it he sacrificed his fortune, and
even his personal happiness, and to it he devoted his entire
existence.

tiii FOREWORD

Moreover, whereas the French plotter is said to have
had confederates even in the Assembly of the Convention,
confederates who were sufficiently influential and powerful
to secure his own immunity, the Englishman when he was
bent on his errands of mercy had the whole of France
against htm.

The Baron de Batz was a man who never justified either
his own ambitions or even his existence ; the Scarlet Pim-
pernel was a personality of whom an entire nation might
justly be proud.

CONTENTS
PART I

CHAPTER PAGE

I In the The&tre National i

II Widely Divergent Aims 10

III The Demon Chance . . 24

IV Mademoiselle Lange 29

V The Temple Prison 40

VI The Committee's Agent 50

VII The Most Precious Life in Europe . . 57

VIII Arcades Ambo 68

IX What Love Can Do 75

X Shadows 90

XI The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel . 99

XII What Love Is 116

XIII Then Everything was Dark . . . .127

XIV The Chief 135

XV The Gate of La Villette 142

XVI The Weary Search 148

XVII Chauvelin 163

XVIII The Removal 170

XIX It is About the Dauphin 176

XX The Certificate of Safety 183

XXI Back to Paris . 188

XXII Of That There Could be no Question . 203

XXIII The Overwhelming Odds 215

PART II

XXIV The News 218

XXV Paris Once More 231

XXVI The Bitterest Foe 238

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XXVII In the Conciergerie 252

XXVIII The Caged Lion 260

XXIX For the Sake of that Helpless Innocent 267

XXX Afterwards 282

XXXI An Interlude 290

XXXII Sisters 294

XXXIII Little Mother 305

XXXIV The Letter 309

PART III

XXXV The Last Phase 314

XXXVI Submission 330

XXXVII Chauveun's Advice 339

XXXVIII Capitulation 344

XXXIX Kill Him 1 355

XL God Help Us All 364

XLI When Hope Was Dead 367

XLII The Guard-house of the Rue Ste. Anne 375

XLIII The Dreary Journey 384

XLIV The Halt at Crecy 390

XLV The Forest of Boulogne 399

XLVT Others in the Park 407

XLVII The Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre . . 416

XLVIII The Waning Moon 426

XLIX The Land of Eldorado 43 3

ILLUSTRATIONS

Photograph of the remains of the original letter written in the
Conciergerie Prison by Sir Percy Blakeney at the dictation of
Chauvelin, and subsequently partly burned by Armand St. Just

. Frontispiece

PAGE

Plan of a portion of Old Paris, showing the house at the corner of
the Quai de l'Ecole and the Carrefour des Trois Maries where
Sir Percy Blakeney lodged, and the Conciergerie Prison where
he was incarcerated. Reconstructed from old prints and
documents by Andrew N. Prentice, F, R. I. B. A 210

ELDORADO

PART I
CHAPTER I

IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL

And yet people found the opportunity to amuse them-
selves, to dance and to go to the theatre, to enjoy music
and open-air cafes and promenades in the Palais Royal.

New fashions in dress made their appearance, milliners
produced fresh " creations," and jewellers were not idle.
A grim sense of humour, born of the very intensity of ever-
present danger, had dubbed the cut of certain tunics " tiU
tranchie," or a favourite ragout was called "a la guillo-
tine."

On three evenings only during the past memorable four
and a half years did the theatres close their doors, and these
evenings were the ones immediately following that terrible
2nd of September- — the day of the butchery outside the
Abbaye prison, when Paris herself was aghast with horror,
and the cries of the massacred might have drowned the
calls of the audience whose hands upraised for plaudits
would still be dripping with blood.

On all other evenings .of these same four and a half years
the theatres in the Rue de Richelieu, in the Palais Royal,
the Luxembourg, and others, had raised their curtains and
taken money at their doors. The same audience that earlier

» ELDORADO

in the day had whiled away the time by witnessing the ever-
recurrent dramas of the Place de la Revolution assembled
here in the evenings and filled stalls, boxes, and tiers,
laughing over the satires of Voltaire or weeping over the
sentimental tragedies of persecuted Romeos and innocent
Juliets.

Death knocked at so many doors these days I He was
so constant a guest in the houses of relatives and friends
that those who had merely shaken him by the hand, those on
whom he had smiled, and whom he, still smiling, had passed
indulgently by, looked on him with that subtle contempt
born of familiarity, shrugged their shoulders at his passage,
and envisaged his probable visit on the morrow with light-
hearted indifference.

Paris — despite the horrors that had stained her walls —
had remained a city of pleasure, and the knife of the
guillotine did scarce descend more often than did the drop-
scenes on the stage.

On this bitterly cold evening of the 27th Nivose, in the
second year of the Republic — or, as we of the old style
still persist in calling it, the 16th of January, 1794 — the
auditorium of the Theatre National was filled with a very
brilliant company.

The appearance of a favourite actress in the part of one
of Moliere's volatile heroines had brought pleasure-loving
Paris to witness this revival of " Le Misanthrope," with new
scenery, dresses, and the aforesaid charming actress to add
piquancy to the master's mordant wit

The Moniteur, which so impartially chronicles the events
of those times, tells us under that date that the Assem-
bly of the Convention voted on that same day a new law
giving fuller power to its spies, enabling them to effect
domiciliary searches at their discretion without previous

IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL 3

reference to the Committee of General Security, authoris-
ing them to proceed against all enemies of public happiness,
to send them to prison at their own discretion, and assuring
them the sum of thirty-five livres " for every piece of game
thus beaten up for the guillotine." Under that same date
the Monitew also puts it on record that the Theatre Na-
tional was filled to its utmost capacity for the revival of
the late citoyen Moliere's comedy.

The Assembly of the Convention having voted the new
law which placed the lives of thousands at the mercy of a
few human bloodhounds, adjourned its sitting and pro-
ceeded to the Rue de Richelieu.

Already the house was full when the fathers of the peo-
ple made their way to the seats which had been reserved
for them. An awed hush descended on the throng as one
by one the men whose very names inspired horror and dread
filed in through the narrow gangways of the stalls or took
their places in the tiny boxes around.

Citizen Robespierre's neatly bewigged head soon ap-
peared in one of these ; his bosom friend St. Just was with
him, and also his sister Charlotte. Danton, like a big,
shaggy-coated lion, elbowed his way into the stalls, whilst
Sauterre, the handsome butcher and idol of the people of
Paris, was loudly acclaimed as his huge frame, gorgeously
clad in the uniform of the National Guard, was sighted
on one of the tiers above.

The public in the parterre and in the galleries whispered
excitedly; the awe-inspiring names flew about hither and
thither on the wings of the overheated air. Women craned
their necks to catch sight of heads which mayhap on the
morrow would roll into the gruesome basket at the foot
of the guillotine.

In one of the tiny avont-sctne boxes two men had taken

4 ELDORADO

their seats long before the bulk of the audience had begun
to assemble in the house. The inside of the box was in
complete darkness, and the narrow opening which allowed
but a sorry view of one side of the stage helped to conceal
rather than display the occupants.

The younger one of these two men appeared to be some-
thing of a stranger in Paris, for as the public men and the
well-known members of the Government began to arrive
he often turned to his companion for information regard-
ing these notorious personalities.

" Tell me, de Batz," he said, calling the other's attention
to a group of men who had just entered the house, " that
creature there in the green coat — with his hand up to his
face now — who is he ? "

"Where? Which do you mean?"

" There 1 He looks this way now, and he has a playbill
in his hand. The man with the protruding chin and the
convex forehead, a face like a marmoset, and eyes like a
jackal. What?"

The other leaned over the edge of the box, and his small,
restless eyes wandered over the now closely-packed audi-
torium.

" Oh I " he said as soon as he recognised the face which
his friend had pointed out to him, "that is citizen
Foucquier-Tinville."

"The Public Prosecutor?"

" Himself. And Heron is the man next to him."

"Heron?" said the younger man interrogatively.

" Yes. He is chief agent to the Committee of General
Security now."

" What does that mean ? "

Both leaned back in their chairs, and their sombrely-clad
figures were once more merged in the gloom of the nar-

IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL 5

row box. Instinctively, since the name of the Public Prose-
cutor had been mentioned between them, they had allowed
their voices to sink to a whisper.

The older man — a stoutish, florid-looking individual,
with small, keen eyes, and skin pitted with small-pox —
shrugged his shoulders at his friend's question, and then
said with an air of contemptuous indifference :

" It means, my good St. Just, that these two men whom
you see down there, calmly conning the programme of this
evening's entertainment, and preparing to enjoy themselves
to-night in the company of the late M. de Moliere, are two
hell-hounds as powerful as they are cunning."

" Yes, yes," said St. Just, and much against his will a
slight shudder ran through his slim figure as he spoke.
" Foucquier-Tinville I know ; I know his cunning, and I
know his power — but the other?"

" The other? " retorted de Batz lightly. " Uiron? Let
me tell you, my friend, that even the might and lust of that
damned Public Prosecutor pale before the power of
Heron ! "

" But how ? I do not understand."

" Ah I you have been in England so long, you lucky dog,
and though no doubt the main plot of our hideous tragedy
has reached your ken, you have no cognisance of the actors
who play the principal parts on this arena flooded with
blood and carpeted with hate. They come and go, these
actors, my good St. Just — they come and go. Marat is
already the man of yesterday, Robespierre is the man of
to-morrow. To-day we still have Danton and Foucquier-
Tinville; we still have Pere Duchesne, and your own good
cousin Antoine St. Just, but Heron and his like are with
us always."

" Spies, of course?"

6 ELDORADO

"Spies," assented the other. "And what spies! Were
you present at the sitting of the Assembly to-day? "

" No."

" t was. I heard the new decree which already has
passed into law. Ah [ I tell you, friend, that we do not
let the grass grow under our feet these days. Robespierre
wakes up one morning with a whim ; by the afternoon that
whim has become law, passed by a servile body of men too
terrified to run counter to his will, fearful lest they be
accused of moderation or of humanity — -the greatest crimes
that can be committed nowadays."

"But Danton?"

"Ah! Danton? He would wish to stem the tide that
his own passions have let loose; to muzzle the raging beasts
whose fangs he himself has sharpened. I told you that
Danton is still the man of to-day; to-morrow he will be
accused of moderation. Danton and moderation! — ye
gods! Eh? Danton, who thought the guillotine too slow
in its work, and armed thirty soldiers with swords, so that
thirty heads might fall at one and the same time. Danton,
friend, will perish to-morrow accused of treachery against
the Revolution, of moderation towards her enemies; and
curs like Heron will feast on the blood of lions like Danton
and his crowd."

He paused a moment, for he dared not raise his voice,
and his whispers were being drowned by the noise in the
auditorium. The curtain, timed to be raised at eight
o'clock, was still down, though it was close on hatf-past,
and the public was growing impatient. There was loud
stamping of feet, and a few shrill whistles of disapproval
proceeded from the gallery.

" If Heron gets impatient," said de Batz lightly, when
the noise had momentarily subsided, the manager of this

IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL 7

theatre and mayhap his leading actor and actress will spend
an unpleasant day tomorrow."

" Always Heron!" said St. Just, with a contemptuous
smile.

€t Yes, my friend," rejoined the other imperturbably,
" always Heron. And he has even obtained a longer lease
of existence this afternoon."

" By the new decree ? "

" Yes. The new decree. The agents of the Committee
of General Security, of whom Heron is the chief, have from
to-day powers of domiciliary search; they have full powers
to proceed against all enemies of public welfare. Isn't that
beautifully vague? And they have absolute discretion;
every one may become an enemy of public welfare, either by
spending too much money or by spending too little, by
laughing to-day or crying to-morrow, by mourning for one
dead relative or rejoicing over the execution of another.
He may be a bad example to the public by the cleanliness
of his person or by the filth upon his clothes, he may offend
by walking to-day and by riding in a carriage next week;
the agents of the Committee of General Security shall
alone decide what constitutes enmity against public welfare.
All prisons are to be opened at their bidding to receive those
whom they choose to denounce; they have henceforth the
right to examine prisoners privately and without witnesses,
and to send them to trial without further warrants; their
duty is clear — they must ' beat up game for the guillotine.'
Thus is the decree worded; they must furnish the Public
Prosecutor with work to do, the tribunals with victims to
condemn, the Place de la Revolution with death-scenes to
amuse the people, and for their work they will be rewarded
thirty-five livres for every head that falls under the guillo-
tine. Ah ! if Heron and his like and his myrmidons work

8 ELDORADO

hard and well they can make a comfortable income of four
or five thousand livres a week. We are getting on, friend
St. Just — we are getting on."

He had not raised his voice while he spoke, nor in the
recounting of such inhuman monstrosity, such vile and
bloodthirsty conspiracy against the liberty, the dignity, the
very life of an entire nation, did he appear to feel the slight-
est indignation; rather did a tone of amusement and even
of triumph strike through his speech ; and now he laughed
good-humouredly like an indulgent parent who is watching
the naturally cruel antics of a spoilt boy.

" Then from this hell let loose upon earth," exclaimed St.
Just hotly, " must we rescue those who refuse to ride upon
this tide of blood."

His cheeks were glowing, his eyes sparkled with enthu-
siasm. He looked very young and very eager. Armand
St. Just, the brother of Lady Blakeney, had something of
the refined beauty of his lovely sister, but the features —
though manly — had not the latent strength expressed in
them which characterised every line of Marguerite's exqui-
site face. The forehead suggested a dreamer rather than a
thinker, the blue-grey eyes were those of an idealist rather
than of a man of action.

De Batz's keen piercing eyes had no doubt noted this,
even whilst he gazed at his young friend with that same
look of good-humoured indulgence which seemed habitual
to him.

" We have to think of the future, my good St. Just," he
said after a slight pause, and speaking slowly and decisively,
like a father rebuking a hot-headed child, " not of the pres-
ent. What are a few lives worth beside the great principles
which we have at stake? "

IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL 9

" The restoration of the monarchy — I know," retorted
St. Just, still unsobered, " but, in the meanwhile — "

" In the meanwhile," rejoined de Batz earnestly, " every
victim to the lust of these men is a step towards the restora-
tion of law and order — that is to say, of the monarchy.
It is only through these violent excesses perpetrated in its
name that the nation will realise how it is being fooled by
a set of men who have only their own power and their own
advancement in view, and who imagine that the only way
to that power is over the dead bodies of those who stand
in their way. Once the nation is sickened by these orgies
of ambition and of hate, it will turn against these savage
brutes, and gladly acclaim the restoration of all that they
are striving to destroy. This is our only hope for the
future, and, believe me, friend, that every head snatched
from the guillotine by your romantic hero, the Scarlet
Pimpernel, is a stone laid for the consolidation of this in-
famous Republic."

" I'll not believe it," protested St. Just emphatically.

De Batz, with a 'gesture of contempt indicative also of
complete self-satisfaction and unalterable self-belief,
shrugged his broad shoulders. His short fat fingers, cov-
ered with rings, beat a tattoo upon the ledge of the box.

Obviously, he was ready with a retort. His young
friend's attitude irritated even more than it amused him.
But he said nothing for the moment, waiting while the tradi-
tional three knocks on the floor of the stage proclaimed the
rise of the curtain. The growing impatience of the audi-
ence subsided as if by magic at the welcome call ; everybody
settled down again comfortably in their seats, they gave
up the contemplation of the fathers of the people, and turned
their full attention to the actors on the boards.

CHAPTER II

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS

This was Armand S. Just's first visit to Paris since that
memorable day when first he decided to sever his connection
from the Republican party, of which he and his beautiful
sister Marguerite had at one time been amongst the most
noble, most enthusiastic followers. Already a year and a
half ago the excesses of the party had horrified him, and
that was long before they had degenerated into the sicken-
ing orgies which were culminating to-day in wholesale
massacres and bloody hecatombs of innocent victims.

With the death of Mirabeau the moderate Republicans,
whose sole and entirely pure aim had been to free the peo-
ple of France from the autocratic tyranny of the Bourbons,
saw the power go from their clean hands to the grimy ones
of lustful demagogues, who knew no law save their own
passions of bitter hatred against all classes that were not as
self-seeking, as ferocious as themselves.

It was no longer a question of a fight for political and
religious liberty only, but one of class against class, man
against man, and let the weaker look to himself. The
weaker had proved himself to be, firstly, the man of prop-
erty and substance, then the law-abiding citizen, lastly the
man of action who had obtained for the people that very
same liberty of thought and of belief which soon became
so terribly misused.

Armand St. Just, one of the apostles of liberty, fra-

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS 11

temity, and equality, soon found that the most savage ex-
cesses of tyranny were being perpetrated in the name of
those same ideals which he had worshipped.

His sister Marguerite, happily married in England, was
the final temptation which caused him to quit the country
the destinies of which he no longer could help to control.
The spark of enthusiasm which he and the followers of
Mirabeau had tried to kindle in the hearts of an oppressed
people had turned to raging tongues of unquenchable flames.
The taking of the Bastille had been the prelude to the massa*
cres of September, and even the horror of these had since
paled beside the holocausts of to-day.

Armand, saved from the swift vengeance of the revolu-
tionaries by the devotion of the Scarlet Pimpernel, crossed
over to England and enrolled himself under the banner of
the heroic chief. But he had been unable hitherto to be an
active member of the League. The chief was loath to
allow him to run foolhardy risks. The St. Justs — both
Marguerite and Armand — were still very well-known in
Paris. Marguerite was not a woman easily forgotten, and
her marriage with an English " aristo " did not please those
republican circles who had looked upon her as their queen.
Armand's secession from his party into the ranks of the
emigres had singled him out for special reprisals, if and
whenever he could be got hold of, and both brother and
sister had an unusually bitter enemy in their cousin Antoine
St. Just — once an aspirant to Marguerite's hand, and now
a servile adherent and imitator of Robespierre, whose fero-
cious cruelty he tried to emulate with a view to ingratiating
himself with the most powerful man of the day.

Nothing would have pleased Antoine St. Just more than
the opportunity of showing his zeal and his patriotism by
denouncing his own kith and kin to the Tribunal of the

1* ELDORADO

Terror, and the Scarlet Pimpernel, whose own slender fin-
gers were held on the pulse of that reckless revolution, had
no wish to sacrifice Armand's life deliberately, or even to
expose h to unnecessary dangers.

Thus it was that more than a year had gone by before
Armand St. Just — an enthusiastic member of the League
of the Scarlet Pimpernel — was able to do aught for its
service. He had chafed under the enforced restraint placed
upon him by the prudence of his chief, when, indeed, he
was longing to risk his life with the comrades whom he
loved and beside the leader whom he revered.

At last, in the beginning of '94 he persuaded Blakeney
to allow him to join the next expedition to France. What
the principal aim of that expedition was the members of
the League did not know as yet, but what they did know
was that perils — graver even than hitherto — would at-
tend them on their way.

The circumstances had become very different of late.
At first the impenetrable mystery which had surrounded the
personality of the chief had been a full measure of safety,
but now one tiny corner of that veil of mystery had been
lifted by two rough pairs of hands at least ; Chauvelin, ex-
ambassador at the English Court, was no longer in any
doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, whilst
Collot d'Herbois had seen him at Boulogne, and had there
been effectually foiled by him.

Four months had gone by since that day, and the Scarlet
Pimpernel was hardly ever out of France now ; the massa-
cres in Paris and in the provinces had multiplied with ap-
palling rapidity, the necessity for the selfless devotion of
that small band of heroes had become daily, hourly more
pressing. They rallied round their chief with unbounded
enthusiasm, and let it be admitted at once that the sport-

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS 18

ing instinct — inherent in these English gentlemen — made
them all the more keen, all the more eager now that the
dangers which beset their expeditions were increased ten-
fold.

At a word from the beloved leader, these young men —
the spoilt darlings of society — would leave the gaieties,
the pleasures, the luxuries of London or of Bath, and,
taking their lives in their hands, they placed them, together
with their fortunes, and even their good names, at the serv-
ice of the innocent and helpless victims of merciless
tyranny. The married men — Ffoulkes, my Lord Has-
tings, Sir Jeremiah Wallescourt — left wife and children
at a call from the chief, at the cry of the wretched. Ar-
mand — unattached and enthusiastic — had the right to
demand that he should no longer be left behind.

He had only been away a little over fifteen months, and
yet he found Paris a different city from the one he had left
immediately after the terrible massacres of September.
An air of grim loneliness seemed to hang over her despite
the crowds that thronged her streets ; the men whom he was
wont to meet in public places fifteen months ago — friends
and political allies — were no longer to be seen; strange
faces surrounded him on every side — sullen, glowering
faces, all wearing a certain air of horrified surprise and of
vague, terrified wonder, as if life had become one awful
puzzle, the answer to which must be found in the brief in-
terval between the swift passages of death.

Armand St. Just, having settled his few simple be-
longings in the squalid lodgings which had been assigned
to him, had started out after dark to wander some-
what aimlessly through the streets. Instinctively he
seemed to be searching for a familiar face, some one who
would come to him out of that merry past which he had

1* ELDORADO

spent with Marguerite in their pretty apartment in the Rue
St. Honore.

For an hour he wandered thus and met no one whom he
knew. At times it appeared to him as if he did recognise
a face or figure that passed him swiftly by in the gloom,
but even before he could fully make up his mind to that,
the face or figure had already disappeared, gliding furtively
down some narrow unlighted by-street, without turning to
look to right or left, as if dreading fuller recognition.
Armand felt a total stranger in his own native city.

The terrible hours of the execution on the Place de la
Revolution were fortunately over, the tumbrils no longer
rattled along the uneven pavements, nor did the death-cry
of the unfortunate victims resound through the deserted
streets. Armand was, on this first day of his arrival,
spared the sight of this degradation of the once lovely city;
but her desolation, her general appearance of shamefaced
indigence and of cruel aloofness struck a chill in the young
man's heart

It was no wonder, therefore, when anon he was wending
his way slowly back to his lodging he was accosted by a
pleasant, cheerful voice, that he responded to it with alacrity.
The voice, of a smooth, oily timbre, as if the owner kept
it well greased for purposes of amiable speech, was like an
echo of the past, when jolly, irresponsible Baron de Batz,
erst-while officer of the Guard in the service of the late
King, and since then known to be the most inveterate con-
spirator for the restoration of the monarchy, used to amuse
Marguerite by his vapid, senseless plans for the overthrow
of the newly-risen power of the people.

Armand was quite glad to meet him, and when de Batz
suggested that a good talk over old times would be vastly
agreeable, the younger man gladly acceded. The two men,

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS 15

though certainly not mistrustful of one another, did not
seem to care to reveal to each other the place where they
lodged. De Batz at once proposed the avant-scdne box of
one of the theatres as being the safest place where old
friends could talk without fear of spying eyes or ears.

" There is no place so safe or so private nowadays, be-
lieve me, my young friend/' he said. " I have tried every
sort of nook and cranny in this accursed town, now rid-
dled with spies, and I have come to the conclusion that a
small (want-scene box is the most perfect den of privacy
there is in the entire city. The voices of the actors on the
stage and the hum among the audience in the house will
effectually drown all individual conversation to every ear
save the one for whom it is intended."

It is not difficult to persuade a young man who feels
lonely and somewhat forlorn in a large city to while away
an evening in the companionship of a cheerful talker, and
de Batz was essentially good company. His vapourings
had always been amusing, but Armand now gave him
credit for more seriousness of purpose; and though the
chief had warned him against picking up acquaintances in
Paris, the young man felt that that restriction would cer-
tainly not apply to a man like de Batz, whose hot partisan-
ship of the Royalist cause and hare-brained schemes for
its restoration must make him at one with the League of
the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Armand accepted the other's cordial invitation. He,
too, felt that he would indeed be safer from observation
in a crowded theatre than in the streets. Among a closely
packed throng bent on amusement the sombrely-clad figure
of a young man, with the appearance of a student or of a
journalist, would easily pass unperceived.

But somehow, after the first ten minutes spent in de

16 ELDORADO

Batz' company within the gloomy shelter of the small
avant-schie box, Annand already repented of the impulse
which had prompted him to come to the theatre to-night,
and to renew acquaintanceship with the ex-officer of the
late King's Guard. Though he knew de Batz to be an
ardent Royalist, and even an active adherent of the mon-
archy, he was soon conscious of a vague sense of mistrust
of this pompous, self-complacent individual, whose every
utterance breathed selfish aims rather than devotion to a
forlorn cause.

Therefore, when the curtain rose at last on the first act
of Moliere's witty comedy, St. Just turned deliberately to-
wards the stage and tried to interest himself in the wordy
quarrel between Philinte and Alceste.

But this attitude on the part of the younger man did
not seem to suit his newly-found friend. It was clear that
de Batz did not consider the topic of conversation by any
means exhausted, and that it had been more with a view
to a discussion like the present interrupted one that he had
invited St. Just to come to the theatre with him to-night,
rather than for the purpose of witnessing Mile. Lange's
dibut in the part of Celimene.

The presence of St. Just in Paris had as a matter of
fact astonished de Batz not a little, and had set his intrigu-
ing brain busy on conjectures. It was in order to turn
these conjectures into certainties that he had desired private
talk with the young man.

He waited silently now for a moment or two, his keen,
small eyes resting with evident anxiety on Armand's
averted head, his fingers still beating the impatient tattoo
upon the velvet-covered cushion of the box. Then at the
first movement of St. Just towards him he was ready in
an instant to re-open the subject under discussion.

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS 17

With a quick nod of his head he called his young friend's
attention back to the men in the auditorium.

" Your good cousin Antoine St. Just is hand and glove
with Robespierre now," he said. "When you left Paris
more than a year ago you could afford to despise him as
an empty-headed windbag; now, if you desire to remain
in France, you will have to fear him as a power and a
menace."

" Yes, I knew that he had taken to herding with the
wolves," rejoined Armand lightly. " At one time he was
in love with my sister. I thank God that she never cared
for him."

" They say that he herds with the wolves because of
this disappointment," said de Batz. " The whole pack is
made up of men who have been disappointed, and who
have nothing more to lose. When all these wolves will
have devoured one another, then and then only can we hope
for the restoration of the monarchy in France. And they
will not turn on one another whilst prey for their greed
lies ready to their jaws. Your friend the Scarlet Pim-
pernel should feed this bloody revolution of ours rather
than starve it, if indeed he hates it as he seems to do."

His restless eyes peered with eager interrogation into
those of the younger man. He paused as if waiting for a
reply; then, as St. Just remained silent, he reiterated slowly,
almost in the tones of a challenge:

"If indeed he hates this bloodthirsty revolution of ours
as he seems to do."

The reiteration implied a doubt. In a moment St. Just's
loyalty was up in arms.

" The Scarlet Pimpernel," he said, " cares naught for
your political aims. The work of mercy that he does, he
does for justice and for humanity."

18 ELDORADO

" And for sport," said de Batz with a sneer, " so I've
been told."

" He is English," assented St. Just, " and as such will
never own to sentiment. Whatever be the motive, look
at the result ! "

" Yes ! a few lives stolen from the guillotine."

" Women and children — innocent victims — would have
perished but for his devotion."

" The more innocent they were, the more helpless, the
more pitiable, the louder would their blood have cried for
reprisals against the wild beasts who sent them to their
death."

St. Just made no reply. It was obviously useless to at-
tempt to argue with this man, whose political aims were
as far apart from those of the Scarlet Pimpernel as was
the North Pole from the South.

" If any of you have influence over that hot-headed
leader of yours," continued de Batz, unabashed by the
silence of his friend, " I wish to God you would exert it
now."

"In what way?" queried St. Just, smiling in spite of
himself at the thought of his or any one else's control over
Blakeney and his plans.

It was de Batz' turn to be silent. He paused for a
moment or two, then he asked abruptly:

"Your Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris now, is he not?"

" I cannot tell you," replied Armand.

" Bah ! there is no necessity to fence with me, my friend.
The moment T'set eyes on you this afternoon I knew that
you had not come to Paris alone."

" You are mistaken, my good de Batz," rejoined the
young man earnestly ; " I came to Paris alone."

" Clever parrying, on my word — but wholly wasted on

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS 19

my unbelieving ears. Did I not note at once that you did
not seem overpleased to-day when I accosted you ? "

" Again you are mistaken. I was very pleased to meet
you, for I had felt singularly lonely all day, and was glad
to shake a friend by the hand. What you took for dis-
pleasure was only surprise."

" Surprise ? Ah, yes ! I don't wonder that you were
surprised to see me walking unmolested and openly in the
streets of Paris — whereas you had heard of me as a
dangerous conspirator, eh? — and as a man who has the
entire police of his country at his heels — on whose head
there is a price — what?"

" I knew that you had made several noble efforts to
rescue the unfortunate King and Queen from the hands
of these brutes."

" All of which efforts were unsuccessful," assented de
Batz imperturbably, " every one of them having been either

betrayed by some d d confederate or ferreted out by

some astute spy eager for gain. Yes, my friend, I made
several efforts to rescue King Louis and Queen Marie
Antoinette from the scaffold, and every time I was foiled,
and yet here I am, you see, unscathed and free. I walk
about the streets boldly, and talk to my friends as I meet
them."

" You are lucky," said St. Just, not without a tinge of
sarcasm.

" I have been prudent," retorted de Batz. " I have
taken the trouble to make friends there where I thought
I needed them most — the mammon of unrighteousness,
you know — what? "

And he laughed a broad, thick laugh of perfect self-sat-
isfaction.

" Yes, I know," rejoined St. Just, with the tone of

20 ELDORADO

sarcasm still more apparent in his voice now. " You have
Austrian money at your disposal."

" Any amount," said the other complacently, " and a
great deal of it sticks to the grimy fingers of these patriotic
makers of revolutions. Thus do I ensure my own safety.
I buy it with the Emperor's money, and thus am I able
to work for the restoration of the monarchy in France."

Again St. Just was silent. What could he say? In-
stinctively now, as the fleshy personality of the Gascon
Royalist seemed to spread itself out and to fill the tiny
box with his ambitious schemes and his far-reaching plans,
Armand's thoughts flew back to that other plotter, the man
with the pure and simple aims, the man whose slender
hngers had never handled alien gold, but were ever there
ready stretched out to the helpless and the weak, whilst his
thoughts were only of the help that he might give them,
but never of his own safety.

De Batz, however, seemed blandly unconscious of any
such disparaging thoughts in the mind of his young friend,
for he continued quite amiably, even though a note of
anxiety seemed to make itself felt now in his smooth
voice :

" We advance slowly, but step by step, my good St
Just," he said. " I have not been able to save the mon-
archy in the person of the King or the Queen, but I may
yet do it in the person of the Dauphin."

" The Dauphin," murmured St. Just involuntarily.

That involuntary murmur, scarcely audible, so soft was
it, seemed in some way to satisfy de Batz, for the keenness
of his gaze relaxed, and his fat fingers ceased their nervous,
intermittent tattoo on the ledge of the box.

" Yes ! the Dauphin," he said, nodding his head as if in
answer to his own thoughts, " or rather, let me say, the

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS SI

reigning King of France — Louis XVII, by the grace of
God — the most precious life at present upon the whole
of this earth."

" You are right there, friend de Batz," assented Armand
fervently, "the most precious life, as you say, and one
that must be saved at all costs."

" Yes," said de Batz calmly, " but not by your friend
the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Why not?"

Scarce were those two little words out of St. Just's
mouth than he repented of them. He bit his lip, and with
a dark frown upon his face he turned almost defiantly to-
wards his friend.

But de Batz smiled with easy bonhomie.
" Ah, friend Armand," he said, " you were not cut out
for diplomacy, nor yet for intrigue. So then," he added
more seriously, "that gallant hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
has hopes of rescuing our young King from the clutches of
Simon the cobbler and of the herd of hyenas on the watch
for his attenuated little corpse, eh ? "
" I did not say that," retorted St. Just sullenly.
" No. But I say it. Nay! nay! do not blame yourself,
my over-loyal young friend. Could I, or any one else,
doubt for a moment that sooner or later your romantic hero
would turn his attention to the most pathetic sight in the
whole of Europe — the child-martyr in the Temple prison?
The wonder were to me if the Scarlet Pimpernel ignored
our little King altogether for the sake of his subjects. No,
no; do not think for a moment that you have betrayed
your friend's secret to me. When I met you so luckily to-
day I guessed at once that you were here under the banner
of the enigmatical little red flower, and, thus guessing, I
even went a step further in my conjecture. The Scarlet

22 ELDORADO

Pimpernel is in Paris now in the hope of rescuing Louis
XVII from the Temple prison."

" If that is so, you must not only rejoice but should be
able to help."

" And yet, my friend, I do neither the one now nor mean
to do the other in the future," said de Batz placidly. " I
happen to be a Frenchman, you see."

" What has that to do with such a question ? "

"Everything; though you, Armand, despite that you
are a Frenchman too, do not look through my spectacles.
Louis XVII is King of France, my good St. Just ; he must
owe his freedom and his life to us Frenchmen, and to no
one else."

" That is sheer madness, man," retorted Armand.
" Would you have the child perish for the sake of your
own selfish ideas?"

" You may call them selfish if you will ; all patriotism is
in a measure selfish. What does the rest of the world care
if we are a republic or a monarchy, an oligarchy or hope-
less anarchy? We work for ourselves and to please our-
selves, and I for one will not brook foreign interference."

" Yet you work with foreign money! "

" That is another matter. I cannot get money in France,
so I get it where I can ; but I can arrange for the escape of
Louis XVII is King of France, my good St. Just ; he must
of France should belong the honour and glory of having
saved our King."

For the third time now St. Just allowed the conversation
to drop; he was gazing wide-eyed, almost appalled at this
impudent display of Well-nigh ferocious selfishness and
vanity. De Batz, smiling and complacent, was leaning
back in his chair, looking at his young friend with perfect
contentment expressed in every line of his pock-marked

WIDELY DIVERGENT AIMS *8

face and in the very attitude of his well-fed body. It was
easy enough now to understand the remarkable immunity
which this man was enjoying, despite the many foolhardy
plots which he hatched, and which had up to now in-
variably come to naught.

A regular braggart and empty windbag, he had taken
but one good care, and that was of his own skin. Unlike
other less fortunate Royalists of France, he neither fought
in the country nor braved dangers in town. He played
a safer game — crossed the frontier and constituted him-
self agent of Austria; he succeeded in gaining the Em-
peror's money for the good of the Royalist cause, and for
his own most especial benefit.

Even a less astute man of the world than was Armand
St. Just would easily have guessed that de Batz' desire to
be the only instrument in the rescue of the poor little
Dauphin from the Temple was not actuated by patriotism,
but solely by greed. Obviously there was a rich reward
waiting for him in Vienna the day that he brought Louis
XVII safely into Austrian territory; that reward he would
miss if a meddlesome Englishman interfered in this affair.
Whether in this wrangle he risked the life of the child-
King or not mattered to him not at all. It was de Batz
who was to get the reward, and whose welfare and pros-
perity mattered more than the most precious life in Europe.

CHAPTER III

THE DEMON CHANCE

St. Just would have given much to be back in his lonely
squalid lodgings now. Too late did he realise how wise
had been the dictum which had warned him against mak-
ing or renewing friendships in France.

Men had changed with the times. How terribly they
had changed! Personal safety had become a fetish with
most — a goal so difficult to attain that it had to be fought
for and striven for, even at the expense of humanity and
of self-respect.

Selfishness — the mere, cold-blooded insistence for self-
advancement — ruled supreme. De Batz, surfeited with
foreign money, used it firstly to ensure his own immunity,
scattering it to right and left to still the ambition of the
Public Prosecutor or to satisfy the greed of innumerable
spies.

What was left over he used for the purpose of pitting
the bloodthirsty demagogues one against the other, making
of the National Assembly a gigantic bear-den, wherein wild
beasts could rend one another limb from limb.

In the meanwhile, what cared he — he said it himself
— whether hundreds of innocent martyrs perished miser-
ably and uselessly? They were the necessary food where-
by the Revolution was to be satiated and de Batz' schemes
enabled to mature. The most precious life in Europe even
was only to be saved if its price went to swell the pockets
pf de Batz, or to further his future ambitions.

THE DEMON CHANCE Sfl

Times had indeed changed an entire nation. St Just
felt as sickened with this self-seeking Royalist as he did
with the savage brutes who struck to right or left for their
own delectation. He was meditating immediate flight back
to his lodgings, with a hope of finding there a. word for
him from the chief — a word to remind him that men did
live nowadays who had other aims besides their own ad-
vancement — other ideals besides the deification of self.

The curtain had descended on the first act, and tradition-
ally, as the works of M. de Moliere demanded it, the three
knocks were heard again without any interval. St. Just
rose ready with a pretext for parting with his friend.
The curtain was being slowly drawn up on the second act,
and disclosed Alceste in wrathful conversation with
Celimene.

Alceste's opening speech is short. Whilst the actor
spoke it Armand had his back to the stage ; with hand out-
stretched, he was murmuring what he hoped would prove
a polite excuse for thus leaving his amiable host while the
entertainment had only just begun.

De Eatz — vexed and impatient — had not by any means
finished with his friend yet. He thought that his specious
arguments — delivered with boundless conviction — had
made some impression on the mind of the young man.
That impression, however, he desired to deepen, and whilst
Armand was worrying his brain to find a plausible excuse
for going away, de Batz was racking his to find one for
keeping him here.

Then it was that the wayward demon Chance intervened.
Had St. Just risen but two minutes earlier, had his active
mind suggested the desired excuse more readily, who knows
what unspeakable sorrow, what heartrending misery, what
terrible shame might have been spared both him and those

86 ELDORADO

for whom he cared? Those two minutes — did he but
know it — decided the whole course of his future life.
The excuse hovered on his lips, de Batz reluctantly was
preparing to bid him good-bye, when Celimene, speaking
common-place words enough in answer to her quarrelsome
lover, caused him to drop the hand which he was holding
out to his friend and to turn back towards the stage.

It was an exquisite voice that had spoken — a voice
mellow and tender, with deep tones in it that betrayed
latent power. The voice had caused Armand to look, the
lips that spoke forged the first tiny link of that chain which
riveted him forever after to the speaker.

It is difficult to say if such a thing really exists as love
at first sight. Poets and romancists will have us believe
that it does; idealists swear by it as being the only true love
worthy of the name.

I do not know if I am prepared to admit their theory
with regard to Armand St. Just. Mile. Lange's exquisite
voice certainly had charmed him to the extent of making
him forget his mistrust of de Batz and his desire to get
away. Mechanically almost he sat down again, and lean-
ing both elbows on the edge of the box, he rested his chin
in his hand, and listened. The words which the late M.
de Moliere puts into the mouth of Celimene are trite and
flippant enough, yet every time that Mile. Lange's lips
moved Armand watched her, entranced.

There, no doubt, the matter would have ended : a young
man fascinated by a pretty woman on the stage — 'tis a
small matter, and one from which there doth not often
spring a weary trail of tragic circumstances. Armand,
who had a passion for music, would have worshipped at
the shrine of Mile. Lange's perfect voice until the curtain
came down on the last act, had not his friend de Batz seen

THE DEMON CHANCE 87

the keen enchantment which the actress had produced on
the young enthusiast.

Now de Batz was a man who never allowed an oppor-
tunity to slip by, if that opportunity led towards the further-
ance of his own desires. He did not want to lose sight of
Armand just yet, and here the good demon Chance had
given him an opportunity for obtaining what he wanted.

He waited quietly until the fall of the curtain at the
end of Act II.; then, as Armand, with a sigh of delight,
leaned back in his chair, and closing his eyes appeared to
be living the last half -hour all over again, de Batz re-
marked with well-assumed indifference:

" Mile. Lange is a promising young actress. Do you
not think so, my friend ? "

" She has a perfect voice — it was exquisite melody to
the ear," replied Armand. " I was conscious of little else."

" She is a beautiful woman, nevertheless," continued de
Batz with a smile. " During the next act, my good St
Just, I would suggest that you opened your eyes as well
as your ears."

Armand did as he was bidden. The whole appearance
of Mile. Lange seemed in harmony with her voice. She
was not very tall, but eminently graceful, with a small,
oval face and slender, almost childlike figure, which ap-
peared still more so above the wide hoops and draped
panniers of the fashions of Moliere's time.

Whether she was beautiful or not the young man hardly
knew. Measured by certain standards, she certainly was
not so, for her mouth was not small, and her nose anything
but classical in outline. But the eyes were brown, and
they had that half-veiled look in them — shaded with long
lashes — that seemed to make a perpetual tender appeal to
the masculine heart ; the lips, too, were full and moist, and

28 ELDORADO

the teeth dazzling white. Yes! — on the whole we might
easily say that she was exquisite, even though we did not
admit that she was beautiful.

Painter David has made a sketch of her; we have alt
seen it at the Musee Carnavalet, and all wondered why that
charming, if irregular, little face made such an impres-
sion of sadness.

There are five acts in " Le Misanthrope," during which
Celimene is almost constantly on the stage. At the end of
the fourth act de Batz said casually to his friend :

" I have the honour of personal acquaintanceship with
Mile. Lange. An you care for an introduction to her, we
can go round to the green room after the play."

Did prudence then whisper, " Desist " ? Did loyalty to
the leader murmur, "Obey"? It were indeed difficult to
say. Armand St. Just was not five-and-twenty, and Mile.
Lange's melodious voice spoke louder than the whisper-
ings of prudence or even than the call of duty.

He thanked de Batz warmly, and during the last half-
hour, while the misanthropical lover spurned repentant
Celimene, he was conscious of a curious sensation of im-
patience, a tingling of his nerves, a wild, mad longing to
hear those full moist lips pronounce his name, and have
those large brown eyes throw their half-veiled look into
his own.

CHAPTER IV

MADEMOISELLE LANGE

The green-room was crowded when de Batz and St
Just arrived there after the performance. The older man
cast a hasty glance through the open door. The crowd
did not suit his purpose, and he dragged his companion
hurriedly away from the contemplation of Mile. Lange,
sitting in a far corner of the room, surrounded by an ad-
miring throng, and by innumerable floral tributes offered
to her beauty and to her success.

De Batz without a word led the way back towards the
stage. Here, by the dim light of tallow candles fixed in
sconces against the surrounding walls, the scene-shifters
were busy moving drop-scenes, back cloths and wings, and
paid no heed to the two men who strolled slowly up and
down silently, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

Annand walked with his hands buried in his breeches
pockets, his head bent forward on his chest; but every
now and again he threw quick, apprehensive glances round
him whenever a* firm step echoed along the empty stage or
a voice rang clearly through the now deserted theatre.

"Are we wise to wait here?" he asked, speaking to
himself rather than to his companion.

He was not anxious about his own safety ; but the words
of de Batz had impressed themselves upon his mind :
" Heron and his spies we have always with us."

From the green-room a separate foyer and exit led
directly out into the street. Gradually the sound of many

30 ELDORADO

voices, the loud laughter and occasional snatches of song
which for the past half-hour had proceeded from that part
of the house, became more subdued and more rare. One
by one the friends of the artists were leaving the theatre,
after having paid the usual banal compliments to those
whom they favoured, or presented the accustomed offering
of flowers to the brightest star of the night.

The actors were the first to retire, then the older ac-
tresses, the ones who could no longer command a court of
admirers round them. They all filed out of the green-
room and crossed the stage to where, at the back, a narrow,
rickety wooden stairs led to their so-called dressing-rooms
— tiny, dark cubicles, ill-lighted, unventilated, where some
half-dozen of the lesser stars tumbled over one another
while removing wigs and grease-paint

Armand and de Batz watched this exodus, both with
equal impatience. Mile. Lange was the last to leave the
green-room. For some time, since the crowd had become
thinner round her, Armand had contrived to catch glimpses
of her slight, elegant figure. A short passage led from
the stage to the green-room door, which was wide open,
and at the corner of this passage the young man had paused
from time to time in his walk, gazing with earnest admira-
tion at the dainty outline of the young girl's head, with its
wig of powdered curls that seemed scarcely whiter than
' the creamy brilliance of her skin.

De Batz did not watch Mile. Lange beyond casting im-
patient looks in the direction of the crowd that prevented
her leaving the green-room. He did watch Armand, how-
ever — noted his eager look, his brisk and alert movements,
the obvious glances of admiration which he cast in the
direction of the young actress, and this seemed to afford
him a considerable amount of contentment.

MADEMOISELLE LANGE M

The best part of an hour had gone by since the fall of
the curtain before Mile. Lange finally dismissed her many
admirers, and de Batz had the satisfaction of seeing her
running down the passage, turning back occasionally in or-
der to bid gay " good-nights " to the loiterers who were
loath to part from her. She was a child in all her move-
ments, quite unconscious of self or of her own charms,
but frankly delighted with her success. She was still
dressed in the ridiculous hoops and panniers pertaining to
her part, and the powdered peruke hid the charm of hec
own hair ; the costume gave a certain stilted air to her un-
affected personality, which, by this very sense of contrast,
was essentially fascinating.

In her arms she held a huge sheaf of sweet-scented
narcissi, the spoils of some favoured spot far away in the
South. Armand thought that never in his life had he seen
anything so winsome or so charming.

Having at last said the positively final adieu, Mile. Lange
with a happy little sigh turned to run down the passage.

She came face to face with Armand, and gave a sudden
little gasp of terror. It was not good these days to come
on any loiterer unawares.

But already de Batz had quickly joined his friend, and
his smooth, pleasant voice, and podgy, beringed hand ex-
tended towards Mile. Lange, were sufficient to reassure her.

" You were so surrounded in the green-room, made-
moiselle," he said courteously, " I did not venture to press
in among the crowd of your admirers. Yet I had the great
wish to present my respectful congratulations in person."

"Ah! (fest ce cker de Bats!" exclaimed mademoiselle
gaily, in that exquisitely rippling voice of hers. " And
where in the world do you spring from, my friend? "

" Hush-sh-sh ! " he whispered, holding her small bemit-

SjUr' ELDORADO

tened hand in his, and putting one finger to his lips with an
urgent entreaty for discretion; "not my name, I beg of
you, fair one."

" Bah I " she retorted lightly, even though her full lips
trembled now as she spoke and belied her very words.
" You need have no fear whilst you are in this part of the
house. It is an understood thing that the Committee of
General Security does not send its spies behind the curtain
of a theatre. Why, if all of us actors and actresses were
sent to the guillotine there would be no play on the morrow.
Artistes are not replaceable in a few hours; those that are
in existence must perforce be spared, or the citizens who
govern us now would not know where to spend their even-
ings."

But though she spoke so airily and with her accustomed
gaiety, it was easily perceived that even on this childish
mind the dangers which beset every one these days had al-
ready imprinted their mark of suspicion and of caution.

" Come into my dressing-room," she said. " I must not
tarry here any longer, for they will be putting out the
lights. But I have a room to myself, and we can talk there
quite agreeably."

She led the way across the stage towards the wooden
stairs. Armand, who during this brief colloquy between
his friend and the young girl had kept discreetly in the
background, felt undecided what to do. But at a peremp-
tory sign from de Batz he, too, turned in the wake of the
gay little lady, who ran swiftly up the rickety steps, hum-
ming snatches of popular songs the while, and not turn-
ing to see if indeed the two men were following her.

She had the sheaf of narcissi still in her arms, and the
door of her tiny dressing-room being open, she ran straight
in and threw the flowers down in a confused, sweet-scented

MADEMOISELLE LANGE 88

mass upon the small table that stood at one end of the room,
littered with pots and bottles, letters, mirrors, powder-puffs,
silk stockings, and cambric handkerchiefs.

Then she turned and faced the two men, a merry look
of unalterable gaiety dancing in her eyes.

" Shut the door, men ami," she said to de Batz, " and
after that sit down where you can, so long as it is not on
my most precious pot of unguent or a box of costliest
powder."

While de Batz did as he was told, she turned to Armand
and said with a pretty tone of interrogation in her melo-
dious voice:
" Monsieur?"

" St. Just, at your service, mademoiselle," said Armand,
bowing very low in the most approved style obtaining at
the English Court.

" St. Just ? " she repeated, a look of puzzlement in her
brown eyes. " Surely — "

" A kinsman of citizen St. Just, whom no doubt you
know, mademoiselle," he exclaimed.

" My friend Armand St. Just," interposed de Batz, " is
practically a new-comer in Paris. He lives in England
habitually."

" In England ? " she exclaimed. " Oh ! do tell me all
about England. I would love to go there. Perhaps I
may have to go some day. Ohl do sit down, de Batz,"
she continued, talking rather volubly, even as a delicate
blush heightened the colour in her cheeks under the look
of obvious admiration from Armand St. Just's expressive
eyes.

She swept a handful of delicate cambric and silk from
off a chair, making room for de Batz' portly figure. Then
she sat upon the sofa, and with an inviting gesture and a

34 ELDORADO

call from the eyes she bade Armand sit down next to her.

She leaned back against the cushions, and the table being
close by, she stretched out a hand and once more took
up the bunch of narcissi, and while she talked to Armand
she held the snow-white blooms quite close to her face —
so close, in fact, that he could not see her mouth and chin,
only her dark eyes shone across at him over the heads of
the blossoms.

"Tell me all about England," she reiterated, settling
herself down among the cushions like a spoilt child who
is about to listen to an oft-told favourite story.

Armand was vexed that de Batz was sitting there. He
felt he could have told this dainty little lady quite a good
deal about England if only his pompous, fat friend would
have had the good sense to go away.

As it was, he felt unusually timid and gauche, not quite
knowing what to say, a fact which seemed to amuse Mile.
Lange not a little.

"I am very fond of England," he said lamely ; " my
sister is married to an Englishman, and I myself have
taken up my permanent residence there."

" Among the society of Hnigrist" she queried.

Then, as Armand made no reply, de Batz interposed
quickly :

" Oh I you need not fear to admit it, my good Armand ;
Mademoiselle Lange, has many friends among the imigris
— have you not, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, of course," she replied lightly; "I have friends
everywhere. Their political views have nothing to do with
me. Artistes, I think, should have naught to do with
politics. You see, citizen St. Just, I never inquired of you
what were your views. Your name and kinship would
proclaim you a partisan of citizen Robespierre, yet I find

MADEMOISELLE LANGE S6

you in the company of M. de Batz; and you tell me that
you live in England."

" He is no partisan of citizen Robespierre," again in-
terposed de Batz; "in fact, mademoiselle, I may safely
tell you, I think, that my friend has but one ideal on this
earth, whom he has set up in a shrine, and whom he wor-
ships with all the ardour of a Christian for his God."

" How romantic! " she said, and she looked straight at
Armand. " Tell me, monsieur, is your ideal a woman or
a man?"

His look answered her, even before he boldly spoke the
two words:

" A woman."

She took a deep draught of sweet, intoxicating scent
from the narcissi, and his gaze once more brought blushes
to her cheeks. De Batz' good-humoured laugh helped her
to hide this unwonted access of confusion.

" That was well turned, friend Armand," he said lightly ;
" but I assure you, mademoiselle, that before I brought him
here to-night his ideal was a man."

" A man ! " she exclaimed, with a contemptuous little
pout " Who was it? "

" I know no other name for him but that of a small,
insignificant flower — the Scarlet Pimpernel," replied de
Batz.

" The Scarlet Pimpernel ! " she ejaculated, dropping the
flowers suddenly, and gazing on Armand with wide, won-
dering eyes. "And do you know him, monsieur?"

He was frowning despite himself, despite the delight
which he felt at sitting so close to this ^harming little lady,
and feeling that in a measure his presence and his per-
sonality interested her. But he felt irritated with de Batz,
and angered at what he considered the latter's indiscretion.

96 ELDORADO

To him the very name of his leader was almost a sacred
one; he was one of those enthusiastic devotees who only
care to name the idol of their dreams with bated breath,
and only in the ears of those who would understand and
sympathise.

Again he felt that if only he could have been alone with
mademoiselle he could have told her all about the Scarlet
Pimpernel, knowing that in her he would find a ready
listener, a helping and a loving heart; but as it was he
merely replied tamely enough :

" Yes, mademoiselle, I do know him."

"You have seen him?" she queried eagerly; "spoken
to him?"

" Yes."

" Ohl do tell me all about him. You know quite a num-
ber of us in France have the greatest possible admiration
for your national hero. We know, of course, that he is
an enemy of our Government — but, oh ! we feel that he
is not an enemy of France because of that. We are a
nation of heroes, too, monsieur," she added with a pretty,
proud toss of the head; "we can appreciate bravery and
resource, and we love the mystery that surrounds the per-
sonality of your Scarlet Pimpernel. But since you know
him, monsieur, tell me what is he like? "

Armand was smiling agaia He was yielding himself
up wholly to the charm which emanated from this young
girl's entire being, from her gaiety and her unaffectedness,
her enthusiasm, and that obvious artistic temperament
which caused her to feel every sensation with superlative
keenness and thoroughness.

" What is he like? " she insisted.

" That, mademoiselle," he replied, "lam not at liberty
to tell you."

MADEMOISELLE LANGE 87

"Not at liberty to tell me!" she exclaimed; "but
monsieur, if I command you — "

" At risk of falling forever under the ban of your dis-
pleasure, mademoiselle, I would still remain silent on that
subject."

She gazed on him with obvious astonishment. It was
quite an unusual thing for this spoilt darling of an admir-
ing public to be thus openly thwarted in her whims.

" How tiresome and pedantic 1 " she said, with a shrug
of her pretty shoulders and a moue of discontent. " And,
oh I how ungallantl You have learnt ugly, English ways,
monsieur ; for there, I am told, men hold their womenkind
in very scant esteem. There I " she added, turning with a
mock air of hopelessness towards de Batz, "am I not a
most unlucky woman ? For the past two years I have used
my best endeavours to catch sight of that interesting Scar-
let Pimpernel ; here do I meet monsieur, who actually knows
him (so he says), and he is so ungallant that he even re-
fuses to satisfy the first cravings of my just curiosity."

" Citizen St. Just will tell you nothing now, made-
moiselle," rejoined de Batz with his good-humoured laugh ;
" it is my presence, I assure you, which is setting a seal
upon his lips. He is, believe me, aching to confide in you,
to share in your enthusiasm, and to see your beautiful eyes
glowing in response to his ardour when he describes to you
the exploits of that prince of heroes. En tete-i-tete, one
day, you will, I know, worm every secret out of my discreet
friend Armand."

Mademoiselle made no comment on this — that is to
say, no audible comment — but she buried the whole of
her face for a few seconds among the flowers, and Armand
from amongst those flowers caught sight of a pair of very
bright brown eyes which shone on him with a puzzled look.

88 ELDORADO

She said nothing more about the Scarlet Pimpernel or
about England just then, but after awhile she began talk
ing of more indifferent subjects: the state of the weather,
the price of food, the discomforts of her own house, now
that the servants had been put on perfect equality with
their masters.

Armand soon gathered that the burning questions of
the day, the horrors of massacres, the raging turmoil of
politics, had not affected her very deeply as yet. She had
not troubled her pretty head very much about the social
and humanitarian aspect of the present seething revolution.
She did not really wish to think about it at all. An artiste
to her finger-tips, she was spending her young life in ear-
nest work, striving to attain perfection in her art, absorbed
in study during the day, and in the expression of what she
had learnt in the evenings.

The terrors of the guillotine affected her a little, but
somewhat vaguely still. She had not realised that any
dangers could assail her whilst she worked for the artistic
delectation of the public.

It was not that she did not understand what went on
around her, but that her artistic temperament and her en-
vironment had kept her aloof from it all. The horrors
of the Place de la Revolution made her shudder, but only
in the same way as the tragedies of M. Racine or of
Sophocles which she had studied caused her to shudder,
and she had exactly the same sympathy for poor Queen
Marie Antoinette as she had for Mary Stuart, and shed
as many tears for King Louis as she did for Polyeucte.

Once de Batz mentioned the Dauphin, but mademoiselle
put up her hand quickly and said in a trembling voice,
whilst the tears gathered in her eyes:

" Do not speak of the child to me, de Batz. What can

MADEMOISELLE LANGE 89

I, a lonely, hard-working woman, do to help him ? I try
not to think of him, for if I did, knowing my own help-
lessness, I feel that I could hate my countrymen, and speak
my bitter hatred of them across the footlights; which would
be more than foolish," she added naively, " for it would
not help the child, and I should be sent to the guillotine.
But oh I sometimes I feel that I would gladly die if only
that poor little child-martyr were restored to those who
love him and given back once more to joy and happiness.
But they would not take my life for his, I am afraid," she
concluded, smiling through her tears. " My life is of no
value in comparison with his."

Soon after this she dismissed her two visitors. De
Batz, well content with the result of this evening's enter-
tainment, wore an urbane, bland smile on his rubicund face.
Armand, somewhat serious and not a little in love, made
the hand-kiss with which he took his leave last as long as
he could.

" You will come and see me again, citizen St. Just ? " she
asked after that preliminary leave-taking.

" At your service, mademoiselle," he replied with alacrity.

" How long do you stay in Paris? "

" I may be called away at any time."

" Well, then, come to-morrow. I shall be free towards
four o'clock. Square du Roule. You cannot miss the
house. Any one there will tell you where lives citizeness
Lange."

" At your service, mademoiselle," he replied.

The words sounded empty and meaningless, but his eyes,
as they took 6nal leave of her, spoke the gratitude and
the joy which he felt

THE. TEMPLE PRISON

It was close on midnight when the two friends finally
parted company outside the doors of the theatre. The
night air struck with biting keenness against them when
they emerged from the stuffy, overheated building, and
both wrapped their caped cloaks tightly round their
shoulders. Armand — more than ever now — was anx-
ious to rid himself of de Batz. The Gascon's platitudes
irritated him beyond the bounds of forbearance, and he
wanted to be alone, so that he might think over the events
of this night, the chief event being a little lady with an
enchanting voice and the most fascinating brown eyes he
had ever seen.

Self-reproach, too, was fighting a fairly even fight with
the excitement that had been called up by that same pair
of brown eyes. Armand for the past four or five hours
had acted in direct opposition to the earnest advice given
to him by his chief; he had renewed one friendship which
had been far better left in oblivion, and he had made an
acquaintance which already was leading him along a path
that he felt sure his comrade would disapprove. But the
path was so profusely strewn with scented narcissi that
Armand's sensitive conscience was quickly lulled to rest
by the intoxicating fragrance.

Looking neither to right nor left, he made his way very
quickly up the Rue Richelieu towards the Montmartre
quarter, where he lodged. De Batz stood and watched

THE TEMPLE PRISON 41

him for as long as the dim lights of the street lamps il-
lumined his slim, soberly-clad figure; then he turned on
his heel and walked off in the opposite direction.

His florid, pock-marked face wore an air of contentment
not altogether unmixed with a kind of spiteful triumph.

" So, my pretty Scarlet Pimpernel," he muttered between
his closed lips, " you wish to meddle in my affairs, to have
for yourself and your friends the credit and glory of
snatching the golden prize from the clutches of these mur-
derous brutes. Well, we shall seel We shall see which
is the wiliest — the French ferret or the English fox."

He walked deliberately away from the busy part of the
town, turning his back on the river, stepping out briskly
straight before him, and swinging his gold-headed cane as
he walked.

The streets which he had to traverse were silent and de-
serted, save occasionally where a drinking or an eating
house had its swing-doors still invitingly open. From
these places, as de Batz strode rapidly by, came sounds of
loud voices, rendered raucous by outdoor oratory; volleys
of oaths hurled irreverently in the midst of impassioned
speeches; interruptions from rowdy audiences that vied
with the speaker in invectives and blasphemies; wordy war-
fares that ended in noisy vituperations; accusations hurled
through the air heavy with tobacco smoke and the fumes
of cheap wines and of raw spirits.

De Batz took no heed of these as he passed, anxious only
that the crowd of eating-house politicians did not, as often
was its wont, turn out pele-mele into the street, and settle
its quarrel by the weight of fists. He did not wish to be
embroiled in a street fight, which invariably ended in de-
nunciations and arrests, and was glad when presently he
had left the purlieus of the Palais Royal behind him, and

48 ELDORADO

could strike on his left toward the lonely Faubourg du
Temple.

From the dim distance far away came at intervals the
mournful sound of a roll of muffled drums, half veiled by
the intervening hubbub of the busy night life of the great
city. It proceeded from the Place de la Revolution, where
a company of the National Guard were on night watch
round the guillotine. The dull, intermittent notes of the
drum came as a reminder to the free people of France that
the watchdog of a vengeful revolution was alert night and
day, never sleeping, ever wakeful, " beating up game for
the guillotine," as the new decree framed to-day by the
Government of the people had ordered that it should do.

From time to time now the silence of this lonely street
was broken by a sudden cry of terror, followed by the clash
of arms, the inevitable volley of oaths, the call for help,
the final moan of anguish. They were the ever-recurring
brief tragedies which told of denunciations, of domiciliary
search, of sudden arrests, of an agonising desire for life
and for freedom — for life under these same horrible con-
ditions of brutality and of servitude, for freedom to
breathe, if only a day or two longer, this air, polluted by
filth and by blood.

De Batz, hardened to these scenes, paid no heed to them.
He had heard it so often, that cry in the night, followed
by death-like silence; it came from comfortable bourgeois
houses, from squalid lodgings, or lonely cul-de-sac, where-
ever some hunted quarry was run to earth by the newly-
organised spies of the Committee of General Security.

Five and thirty livres for every head that falls trunkless
into the basket at the foot of the guillotine I Five and
thirty pieces of silver, now as then, the price of innocent
blood. Every cry in the night, every call for help, meant

THE TEMPLE PRISON 48

game for the guillotine, and five and thirty livres in the
hands of a Judas.

And de Batz walked on unmoved by what he saw and
heard, swinging his cane and looking satisfied. Now he
struck into the Place de la Victoire, and looked on one of
the open-air camps that had recently been established where
men, women, and children were working to provide arms
and accoutrements for the Republican army that was fight-
ing the whole of Europe.

The people of France were up in arms against tyranny;
and on the open places of their mighty city they were en-
camped day and night forging those arms which were
destined to make them free, and in the meantime were bend-
ing under a yoke of tyranny more complete, more grinding
and absolute than any that the most despotic kings had ever
dared to inflict.

Here by the light of resin torches, at this late hour of
the night, raw lads were being drilled into soldiers, half-
naked under the cutting blast of the north wind, their knees
shaking under them, their arms and legs blue with cold,
their stomachs empty, and their teeth chattering with fear;
women were sewing shirts for the great improvised army,
with eyes straining to see the stitches by the flickering light
of the torches, their throats parched with the continual in-
haling of smoke-laden air; even children, with weak,
clumsy little fingers, were picking rags to be woven into
cloth again — all, all these slaves were working far into
the night, tired, hungry, and cold, but working unceasingly,
as the country had demanded it: "the people of France
in arms against tyranny I " The people of France had to
set to work to make arms, to clothe the soldiers, the de-
fenders of the people's liberty.

And from this crowd of people — men, women, and

M ELDORADO

children — there came scarcely a sound, save raucous whis-
pers, a moan or a sigh quickly suppressed. A grim silence
reigned in this thickly-peopled camp; only the crackling
of the torches broke that silence now and then, or the
flapping of canvas in the wintry gale. They worked on
sullen, desperate, and starving, with no hope of payment
save the miserable rations wrung from poor tradespeople
or miserable farmers, as wretched, as oppressed as them-
selves ; no hope of payment, only fear of punishment, for
that was ever present

The people of France in arms against tyranny were not
allowed to forget that grim taskmaster with the two great
hands stretched upwards, holding the knife which de-
scended mercilessly, indiscriminately on necks that did
not bend willingly to the task.

A grim look of gratified desire had spread over de Batz'
face as he skirted the open-air camp. Let them toil, let
them groan, let them starve I The more these clouts suffer,
the more brutal the heel that grinds them down, the sooner
will the Emperor's money accomplish its work, the sooner
will these wretches be clamouring for the monarchy, which
would mean a rich reward in de Batz' pockets.

To him everything now was for the best: the tyranny,
the brutality, the massacres. He gloated in the holocausts
with as much satisfaction as did the most bloodthirsty
Jacobin in the Convention. He would with his own hands
have wielded the guillotine that worked too slowly for his
ends. Let that end justify the means, was his motto.
What matter if the future King of France walked up to his
throne over steps made of headless corpses and rendered
slippery with the blood of martyrs?

The ground beneath de Batz' feet was hard and white
with the frost. Overhead the pale, wintry moon looked

THE TEMPLE PRISON 45

down serene and placid on this giant city wallowing in an
ocean of misery.

There had been but little snow as yet this year, and the
cold was intense. On his right now the Cimetiere des SS.
Innocents lay peaceful and still beneath the wan light of
the moon. A thin covering of snow lay evenly alike on
grass mounds and smooth stones. Here and there a broken
cross with chipped arms still held pathetically outstretched,
as if in a final appeal for human love, bore mute testimony
to senseless excesses and spiteful desire for destruction.

But here — within the precincts of the dwelling of the
eternal Master — a solemn silence reigned; only the cold
north wind shook the branches of the yew, causing them to
send forth a melancholy sigh into the night, and to shed a
shower of tiny crystals of snow like the frozen tears of
the dead.

And round the precincts of the lonely graveyard, and
down narrow streets or open places, the night watchmen
went their rounds, lanthorn in hand, and every five minutes
their monotonous call rang clearly out in the night :

" Sleep, citizens ! everything is quiet and at peace I "

We may take it that de Batz did not philosophise over-
much on what went on around him. He had walked
swiftly up the Rue St. Martin, then turning sharply to his
right he found himself beneath the tall, frowning walls
of the Temple prison, the grim guardian of so many secrets,
such terrible despair, such unspeakable tragedies.

Here, too, as in the Place de la Revolution, an intermit-
tent roll of muffled drums proclaimed the ever-watchful
presence of the National Guard. But with that exception
not a sound stirred round the grim and stately edifice; there
were no cries, no calls, no appeals around its walls. All

46 ELDORADO

the crying and wailing was shut in by the massive stone
that told no tales.

Dim and flickering lights shone behind several of the
small windows in the facade of the huge labyrinthine build-
ing. Without any hesitation de Batz turned down the Rue
du Temple, and soon found himself in front of the main
gates which gave on the courtyard beyond. The sentinel
challenged him, but he had the pass-word, and explained
that he desired to have speech with citizen Heron.

With a surly gesture the guard pointed to the heavy
bell-pull up against the gate, and de Batz pulled it with
all his might. The long clang of the brazen bell echoed
and re-echoed round the solid stone walls. Anon a tiny
judas in the gate was cautiously pushed open, and a per-
emptory voice once again challenged the midnight intruder.

De Batz, more peremptorily this time, asked for citizen
Heron, with whom he had immediate and important busi-
ness, and a glimmer of a piece of silver which he held up
close to the judas secured him the necessary admittance.

The massive gates slowly swung open on their creaking
hinges, and as de Batz passed beneath the archway they
closed again behind him.

The concierge's lodge was immediately on his left.
Again he was challenged, and again gave the pass-word.
But his face was apparently known here, for no serious
hindrance to proceed was put in his way.

A man, whose wide, lean frame was but ill-covered by
a threadbare coat and ragged breeches, and with soleless
shoes on his feet, was told off to direct the citoyen to
citizen Heron's rooms. The man walked slowly along
with bent knees and arched spine, and shuffled his feet as he
walked; the bunch of keys which he carried rattled omi-
nously in his long, grimy hands; the passages were badly

THE TEMPLE PRISON 47

lighted, and he also carried a lanthorn to guide himself on
the way.

Closely followed by de Batz, he soon turned into the
central corridor, which is open to the sky above, and was
spectrally alight now with flag-stones and walls gleaming
beneath the silvery sheen of the moon, and throwing back
the fantastic elongated shadows of the two men as they
walked.

On the left, heavily barred windows gave on the corridor,
as did here and there the massive oaken doors, with their
gigantic hinges and bolts, on the steps of which squatted
groups of soldiers -wrapped in their cloaks, with wild, sus-
picious eyes beneath their capotes, peering at the midnight
visitor as he passed.

There was no thought of silence here. The very walls
seemed alive with sounds, groans and tears, loud wails and
murmured prayers; they exuded from the stones and
trembled on the frost-laden air.

Occasionally at one of the windows a pair of white hands
would appear, grasping the heavy iron bar, trying to shake
it in its socket, and mayhap, above the hands, the dim vision
of a haggard face, a man's or a woman's, trying to get a
glimpse of the outside world, a final look at the sky, before
the last journey to the place of death to-morrow. Then
one of the soldiers, with a loud, angry oath, would struggle
to his feet, and with the butt-end of his gun strike at the
thin, wan fingers till their hold on the iron bar relaxed, and
the pallid face beyond would sink back into the darkness
with a desperate cry of pain.

A quick, impatient sigh escaped de Batz* lips. He had
skirted the wide courtyard in the wake of his guide, and
from where he was he could see the great central tower,
with its tiny windows lighted from within, the grim walls

18 ELDORADO

behind which the descendant of the world's conquerors, the
bearer of the proudest name in Europe, and wearer of its
most ancient crown, had spent the last days of his brilliant
life in abject shame, sorrow, and degradation. The mem-
ory had swiftly surged up before him of that night when
he all but rescued King Louis and his family from this
same miserable prison : the guard had been bribed, the
keeper corrupted, everything had been prepared, save the
reckoning with the one irresponsible factor — chance !

He had failed then and had tried again, and again had
failed ; a fortune had been his reward if he had succeeded.
He had failed, but even now, when his footsteps echoed
along the flagged courtyard, over which an unfortunate
King and Queen had walked on their way to their last
ignominious Calvary, he hugged himself with the satisfy-
ing thought that where he had failed at least no one else
had succeeded.

Whether that meddlesome English adventurer, who
called himself the Scarlet Pimpernel, had planned the rescue
of King Louis or of Queen Marie Antoinette at any time
or not — that he did not know ; but on one point at least
he was more than ever determined, and that was that no
power on earth should snatch from him the golden prize
offered by Austria for the rescue of the little Dauphin.

" I would sooner see the child perish, if I cannot save him
myself," was the burning thought in this man's tortuous
brain. " And let that accursed Englishman look to him-
self and to his d d confederates," he added, muttering

a fierce oath beneath his breath.

A winding, narrow stone stair, another length or two of
corridor, and his guide's shuffling footsteps paused beside
a low iron-studded door let into the solid stone. De Batz

THE TEMPLE PRISON 49

dismissed his ill-clothed guide and pulled the iron bell-
handle which hung beside the door.

The bell gave forth a dull and broken clang, which
seemed like an echo of the wails of sorrow that peopled the
huge building with their weird and monotonous sounds.

De Batz — a thoroughly unimaginative person — waited
patiently beside the door until it was opened from within,
and he was confronted by a tall stooping figure, wearing a
greasy coat of snuff-brown cloth, and holding high above
his head a lanthorn that threw its feeble light on de Batz'
jovial face and form.

" It is even I, citizen Heron," he said, breaking in swiftly
on the other's ejaculation of astonishment, which threatened
to send his name echoing the whole length of corridors
and passages, until round every corner of the labyrinthine
house of sorrow the murmur would be borne on the wings
of the cold night breeze : " Citizen He>on is in parley with
ci-devant Baron de Batz ! "

A fact which would have been equally unpleasant for
both these worthies.

"Entar!" said Heron curtly.

He banged the heavy door to behind his visitor ; and de
Batz, who seemed to know his way about the place, walked
straight across the narrow landing to where a smaller door
stood invitingly open.

He stepped boldly in, the while citizen Heron put the
lanthorn down on the floor of the couloir, and then followed
his nocturnal visitor into the room.

CHAPTER VI

THE COMMITTEE'S AGENT

It was a narrow, ill-ventilated place, with but one barred
window that gave on the courtyard. An evil-smelling lamp
hung by a chain from the grimy ceiling, and in a corner of
the room a tiny iron stove shed more unpleasant vapour
than warm glow around.

There was but little furniture: two or three chairs, a
table which was littered with papers, and a corner-cupboard
— the open doors of which revealed a miscellaneous col-
lection — bundles of papers, a tin saucepan, a piece of cold
sausage, and a couple of pistols. The fumes of stale to-
bacco-smoke hovered in the air, and mingled most unpleas-
antly with those of the lamp above, and of the mildew that
penetrated through the walls just below the roof.

Heron pointed to one of the chairs, and then sat down
on the other, close to the table, on which he rested his elbow.
He picked up a short-stemmed pipe, which he had evidently
laid aside at the sound of the bell, and having taken several
deliberate long-drawn puffs from it, he said abruptly :

"Well, what is it now?"

In the meanwhile de Batz had made himself as much at
home in this uncomfortable room as he possibly could. He
had deposited his hat and cloak on one rickety rush-bot-
tomed chair, and drawn another close to the fire. He sat
down with one leg crossed over the other, his podgy be-
ringed hand wandering with loving gentleness down the
length of his shapely calf.

THE COMMITTEE'S AGENT 51

He was nothing if not complacent, and his complacency
seemed highly to irritate his friend Heron.

" Well, what is it ? " reiterated the latter, drawing his
visitor's attention roughly to himself by banging his fist
on the table. "Out with it! What do you want? Why
have you come at this hour of the night — to compromise

me, I suppose — bring your own d d neck and mine

into the same noose — what ? "

" Easy, easy, my friend," responded de Batz imperturb-
ably ; " waste not so much time in idle talk. Why do I usu-
ally come to see you ? Surely you have had no cause to com-
plain hitherto of the unprofitableness of my visits to you? "

" They will have to be still more profitable to me in the
future," growled the other across the table. " I have more
power now."

" I know you have," said de Batz suavely. " The new
decree? What? You may denounce whom you please,
search whom you please, arrest whom you please, and send
whom you please to the Supreme Tribunal without giving
them the slightest chance of escape."

" Is it in order to tell me all this that you have come to
see me at this hour of the night?" queried Heron with a
sneer.

" No ; I came at this hour of the night because I surmised
that in the future you and your hell-hounds would be so
busy all day 'beating up game for the guillotine' that the
only time you would have at the disposal of your friends
would be the late hours of the night. I saw you at the thea-
tre a couple of hours ago, friend Heion; I didn't think to
find you yet abed."

" Well, what do you want ? "

" Rather," retorted de Batz blandly, " shall we say, what
do you want, citizen Heron? "

52 ELDORADO

"For what?"

" For my continued immunity at the hands of yourself
and your pack ? "

Heron pushed his chair brusquely aside and strode across
the narrow room deliberately facing the portly figure of
de Batz, who with head slightly inclined on one side, his
small eyes narrowed till they appeared mere slits in his pock-
marked face, was steadily and quite placidly contemplating
this inhuman monster who had this very day been given
uncontrolled power over hundreds of thousands of human
lives.

Heron was one of those tall men who look mean in spite
of their height. His head was small and narrow, and his
hair, which was sparse and lank, fell in untidy strands across
his forehead. He stooped slightly from the neck, and his
chest, though wide, was hollow between the shoulders.
But his legs were big and bony, slightly bent at the knees,
like those of an ill-conditioned horse.

The face was thin and the cheeks sunken ; the eyes, very
large and prominent, had a look in them of cold and fero-
cious cruelty, a look which contrasted strangely with the
weakness and petty greed apparent in the mouth, which
was flabby, with full, very red lips, and chin that sloped
away to the long thin neck.

Even at this moment as he gazed on de Batz the greed
and the cruelty in him were fighting one of those battles
the issue of which is always uncertain in men of his stamp.

" I don't know," he said slowly, " that I am prepared to
treat with you any longer. You are an intolerable bit of
vermin that has annoyed the Committee of General Security
for over two years now. It would be excessively pleasant
to crush you once and for all, as one would a buzzing

fly"

THE COMMITTEE'S AGENT 68

" Pleasant, perhaps, but immeasurably foolish," rejoined
de Batz coolly ; " you would only get thirty-five livres for
my head, and I offer you ten times that amount for the self-
same commodity."

" I know, I know ; but the whole thing has become too
dangerous."

" Why? I am very modest. I don't ask a great deal.
Let your hounds keep off my scent."

" You have too many d — — d confederates."

*' Oh 1 Never mind about the others. I am not bar-
gaining about them. Let them look after themselves."

" Every time we get a batch of them, one or the other
denounces you."

" Under torture, I know," rejoined de Batz placidly, hold-
ing his podgy hands to the warm glow of the fire. " For
you have started torture in your house of Justice now, eh,
friend Heron? You and your friend the Public Prosecutor
have gone the whole gamut of devilry — eh ? "

" What's that to you ? " retorted the other gruffly.

"Oh, nothing, nothing! I was even proposing to pay
you three thousand five hundred livres for the privilege of
taking no further interest in what goes on inside this
prison ! "

" Three thousand five hundred 1 " ejaculated Heron in-
voluntarily, and this time even his eyes lost their cruelty;
they joined issue with the mouth in an expression of hun-
gering avarice.

" Two little zeros added to the thirty-five, which is all
you would get for handing me over to your accursed Tri-
bunal," said de Batz, and, as if thoughtlessly, his hand wan-
dered to the inner pocket of his coat, and a slight rustle as
of thin crisp paper brought drops of moisture to the lips
of Heron.

54 ELDORADO

" Leave me alone for three weeks and the money is
yours," concluded de Batz pleasantly.

There was silence in the room now. Through the nar-
row barred window the steely rays of the moon fought
with the dim yellow light of the oil lamp, and lit up the
pale face of the Committee's agent with its lines of cruelty
in sharp conflict with those of greed.

"Weill is it a bargain?" asked de Batz at last in his
usual smooth, oily voice, as he half drew from out his pocket
that tempting little bundle of crisp printed paper. " You
have only to give me the usual receipt for the money and
it is yours."

Heron gave a vicious snarl.

" It is dangerous, I tell you. That receipt, if it falls into
some cursed meddler's hands, would send me straight to
the guillotine."

" The receipt could only fall into alien hands," rejoined
de Batz blandly, " if I happened to be arrested, and even
in that case they could but fall into those of the chief agent
of the Committee of General Security, and he hath name
Heron. You must take some risks, my friend. I take
them too. We are each in the other's hands. The bargain
is quite fair."

For a moment or two longer Heron appeared to be hesi-
tating whilst de Batz watched him with keen intentness.
He had no doubt himself as to the issue. He had tried
most of these patriots in his own golden crucible, and had
weighed their patriotism against Austrian money, and had
never found the latter wanting.

He had not been here to-night if he were not quite sure.
This inveterate conspirator in the Royalist cause never took
personal risks. He looked on Heron now, smiling to him-
self the while with perfect satisfaction.

THE COMMITTEE'S AGENT 66

" Very well," said the Committee's agent with sudden
decision, " I'll take the money. But on one condition,"

"What is it?"

" That you leave little Capet alone."

" The Dauphin ! "

" Call him what you like," said Heron, taking a step
nearer to de Batz, and from his great height glowering
down in fierce hatred and rage upon his accomplice ;
" call the young devil what you like, but leave us to deal
with him."

"To kill him, you mean? Well, how can I prevent it,
my friend ? "

" You and your like are always plotting to get him out
of here. I won't have it I tell ypu I won't have it. If
the brat disappears I am a dead man. Robespierre and his
gang have told me as much. So you leave him alone, or
I'll not raise a finger to help you, but will lay my own hands
on your accursed neck."

He looked so ferocious and so merciless then, that despite
himself, the selfish adventurer, the careless self-seeking in-
triguer, shuddered with a quick wave of unreasoning terror.
He turned away from Heron's piercing gaze, the gaze of a
hyena whose prey is being snatched from beneath its nails.
For a moment he stared thoughtfully into the fire.

He heard the other man's heavy footsteps cross and re-
cross the narrow room, and was conscious of the long curved
shadow creeping up the mildewed wall or retreating down
upon the carpetless floor.

Suddenly, without any warning he felt a grip upon his
shoulder. He gave a start and almost uttered a cry of
alarm which caused Heron to laugh. The Committee's
agent was vastly amused at his friend's obvious access of
fear. There was nothing that he liked better than that he

66 ELDORADO

should inspire dread in the hearts of all those with whom he
came in contact

" I am just going on my usual nocturnal round," he said
abruptly. " Come with me, citizen de Batz."

A certain grim humour was apparent in his face as he
proffered this invitation, which sounded like a rough com-
mand. As de Batz seemed to hesitate he nodded peremp-
torily to him to follow. Already he had gone into the hall
and picked up his lanthorn. From beneath his waistcoat
he drew forth a bunch of keys, which he rattled impatiently,
calling to his friend to come.

" Come, citizen," he said roughly. " I wish to show you
the one treasure in this house which your d d fingers
must not touch."

Mechanically de Batz rose at last. He tried to be master
of the terror which was invading his very bones. He would
not own to himself even that he was afraid, and almost
audibly he kept murmuring to himself that he had no cause
for fear.

Heron would never touch him. The spy's avarice, his
greed of money were a perfect safeguard for any man who
had the control of millions, and Heron knew, of course, that
he could make of this inveterate plotter a comfortable source
of revenue for himself. Three weeks would soon be over,
and fresh bargains could be made time and again, while
de Batz was alive and free.

Heron was still waiting at the door, even whilst de Batz
wondered what this nocturnal visitation would reveal to
him of atrocity and of outrage. He made a final effort to
master his nervousness, wrapped his cloak tightly around
him, and followed his host out of the room.

CHAPTER VII

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE

Once more he was being led through the interminable
corridors of the gigantic building. Once more from the
narrow, barred windows close by him he heard the heart-
breaking sighs, the moans, the curses which spoke of trage-
dies that he could only guess.

Heron was walking on ahead of him, preceding him by
some fifty metres or so, his long legs covering the distances
more rapidly than de Batz could follow them. The latter
knew his way well about the old prison. Few men in Paris
possessed that accurate knowledge of its intricate passages
and its network of cells and halls which de Batz had ac-
quired after close and persevering study.

He himself could have led Heron to the doors of the
tower where the little Dauphin was being kept imprisoned,
but unfortunately he did not possess the keys that would
open all the doors which led to it. There were sentinels
at every gate, groups of soldiers at each end of every corri-
dor, the great — now empty — courtyards, thronged with
prisoners in the daytime, were alive with soldiery even
now. Some walked up and down with fixed bayonet on
shoulder, others sat in groups on the stone copings or
squatted on the ground, smoking or playing cards, but all
of them were alert and watchful.

Heron was recognised everywhere the moment he ap-
peared, and though in these days of equality no one pre-
sented arms, nevertheless every guard stood aside to let

ELDORADO

him pass, or when necessary opened a gate for the powerful \
chief agent of the Committee of General Security.

Indeed, de Batz had no keys such as these to open the
way for him to the presence of the martyred little King.

Thus the two men wended their way on in silence, one
preceding the other. De Batz walked leisurely, thought-
fully, taking stock of everything he saw — the gates, the
barriers, the positions of sentinels and warders, of every-
thing in fact that might prove a help or a hindrance pres-
ently, when the great enterprise would be hazarded. At
last — still in the wake of Heron — he found himself once
more behind the main entrance gate, underneath the arch-
way on which gave the guichet of the concierge.

Here, too, there seemed to be an unnecessary number of
soldiers: two were doing sentinel outside the guichet, but
mere were others in a file against the wall.

Heron rapped with his keys against the door of the con-
cierge's lodge, then, as it was not immediately opened from
within, he pushed it open with his foot.

" The concierge ? " he queried peremptorily.

From a corner of the small panelled room there came a
grunt and a reply :

" Gone to bed, quoi! "

The man who previously had guided de Batz to Heron's
door slowly struggled to his feet. He had been squatting
somewhere in the gloom, and had been roused by Heron's
rough command. He slouched forward now still carrying
a boot in one hand and a blacking brush in the other.

" Take this lanthorn, then," said the chief agent with a
snarl directed at the sleeping concierge, " and come along.
Why are you still here? " he added, as if in after-thought.

" The citizen concierge was not satisfied with the way I
had done his boots," muttered the man, with an evil leer

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE 09

as he spat contemptuously on the floor; "an aristo, quoif
A hell of a place this . . . twenty cells to sweep out every
day . . . and boots to clean for every aristo of a concierge
or warder who demands it. . . . Is that work for a free
bom patriot, I ask?"

" Well, if you are not satisfied, citoyen Dupont," retorted
Heron dryly, " you may go when you like, you know . . .
there are plenty of others ready to do your work . . ."

" Nineteen hours a day, and nineteen sous by way of
payment. ... I have had fourteen days of this convict
work . . ,"

He continued to mutter under his breath, whilst Heron,
paying no further heed to him, turned abruptly towards a
group of soldiers stationed outside.

" En avant, corporal ! " he said ; " bring four men with
you ... we go up to the tower."

The small procession was formed. On ahead the lan-
thorn-bearer, with arched spine and shaking knees, dragging
shuffling footsteps along the corridor, then the corporal with
two of his soldiers, then Heron closely followed by de Batz,
and-finally two more soldiers bringing up the rear.

Heron had given the bunch of keys to the man Dupont.
The latter, on ahead, holding the lanthorn aloft, opened one
gate after another. At each gate he waited for the little
procession to file through, then he re-locked the gate and
passed on.

Up two or three flights of winding stairs set in the solid
stone, and the final heavy door was reached.

De Batz was meditating. Heron's precautions for the
safe-guarding of the most precious life in Europe were more
complete than he had anticipated. What lavish liberality
would be required! what superhuman ingenuity and bound-
less courage in order to break down all the barriers that had

60 ELDORADO

been set up round that young life that flickered inside this
grim tower I

Of these three requisites the corpulent, complacent in-
triguer possessed only the first in a considerable degree.
He could be exceedingly liberal with the foreign money
which he had at his disposal. As for courage and ingenuity,
he believed that he possessed both, but these qualities had
not served him in very good stead in the attempts which he
had made at different times to rescue the unfortunate mem-
bers of the Royal Family from prison. His overwhelming
egotism would not admit for a moment that in ingenuity
and pluck the Scarlet Pimpernel and his English followers
could outdo him, but he did wish to make quite sure
that they would not interfere with him in the highly remu-
nerative work of saving the Dauphin.

Heron's impatient call roused him from these meditations.
The little party had come to a halt outside a massive iron-
studded door.

At a sign from the chief agent the soldiers stood at atten-
tion. He then called de Batz and the lanthorn-bearer to
him.

He took a key from his breeches pocket, and with his own
hand unlocked the massive door. He curtly ordered the
lanthorn-bearer and de Batz to go through, then he himself
went in, and finally once more re-locked the door behind
him, the soldiers remaining on guard on the landing outside.

Now the three men were standing in a square ante-
chamber, dank and dark, devoid of furniture save for a
large cupboard that filled the whole of one wall; the others,
mildewed and stained, were covered with a greyish paper,
which here and there hung away in strips.

Heron crossed this ante-chamber, and with his knuckles
rapped against a small door opposite.

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE 61

" Hold! " he shouted, " Simon, mon vieux, tu es l&f "

From the inner room came the sound of voices, a man's
and a woman's, and now, as if in response to Heron's call,
the shrill tones of a child. There was some shuffling, too,
of footsteps, and some pushing about of furniture, then the
door was opened, and a gruff voice invited the belated visi-
tors to enter.

The atmosphere in this further room was so thick that
at first de Batz was only conscious of the evil smells that
pervaded it; smells which were made up of the fumes of
tobacco, of burning coke, of a smoky lamp, and of stale
food, and mingling through it all the pungent odour of raw
spirits.

Heron had stepped briskly in, closely followed by de Batz.
The man Dupont with a mutter of satisfaction put down
his lanthorn and curled himself up in a corner of the ante-
chamber. His interest in the spectacle so favoured by
. citizen Heron had apparently been exhausted by constant
repetition.

De Batz looked round him with keen curiosity with which
disgust was ready enough to mingle.

The room itself might have been a large one; it was
almost impossible to judge of its size, so crammed was it
with heavy and light furniture of every conceivable shape
and type. There was a monumental wooden bedstead in
one corner, a huge sofa covered in black horsehair in an-
other. A large table stood in the centre of the room, and
there were at least four capacious armchairs round it.
There were wardrobes and cabinets, a diminutive washstand
and a huge pier-glass, there were innumerable boxes and
packing-cases, cane-bottomed chairs and what-nots every-
where. The place looked like a depot for second-hand
furniture.

62 ELDORADO

In the midst of all the litter de Batz at last became con-
scious of two people who stood staring at him and at Heron.
He saw a man before him, somewhat fleshy of build, with
smooth, mouse-coloured hair brushed away from a central
parting, and ending in a heavy curl above each ear; the eyes
were wide open and pale in colour, the lips unusually thick
and with a marked downward droop. Close beside him
stood a youngish-looking woman, whose unwieldy bulk,
however, and pallid skin revealed the sedentary life and
the ravages of ill-health.

Both appeared to regard Heron with a certain amount of
awe, and de Batz with a vast measure of curiosity.

Suddenly the woman stood aside, and in the far corner
of the room there was displayed to the Gascon Royalist's
cold, calculating gaze the pathetic figure of the uncrowned
King of France.

" How is it Capet is not yet in bed? " queried Heron as
soon as he caught sight of the child.

" He wouldn't say his prayers this evening," replied
Simon with a coarse laugh, " and wouldn't drink his medi-
cine. Bah I " he added with a snarl, " this is a place for
dogs and not for human folk."

"If you are not satisfied, mon vieux," retorted Heron
curtly, " you can send in your resignation when you like.
There are plenty who will be glad of the place."

The ex-cobbler gave another surly growl and expectorated
on the floor in the direction where stood the child.

" Little vermin," he said, " he is more trouble than man
or woman can bear."

The boy in the meanwhile seemed to take but little notice
of the vulgar insults put upon him by his guardian. He
stood, a quaint, impassive little figure, more interested ap-
parently in de Batz, who was a stranger to him, than in the

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE 68

three others whom he knew. De Batz noted that the child
looked well nourished, and that he was warmly clad in a
rough woollen shirt and cloth breeches, with coarse grey
stockings and thick shoes ; but he also saw that the clothes
were indescribably filthy, as were the child's hands and face.
The golden curls, among which a young and queenly mother
had once loved to pass her slender perfumed fingers, now
hung bedraggled, greasy, and lank round the little face,
from the lines of which every trace of dignity and of sim-
plicity had long since been erased.

There was no look of the martyr about this child now,
even though, mayhap, his small back had often smarted
under his vulgar tutor's rough blows; rather did the pale
young face wear the air of sullen indifference, and an abject
desire to please, which would have appeared heart-breaking
to any spectator less self-seeking and egotistic than was this
Gascon conspirator.

Madame Simon had called him to her while her man and
the citizen Heron were talking, and the child went readily
enough, without any sign of fear. She took the corner of
her coarse dirty apron in her hand, and wiped the boy's
mouth and face with it.

" I can't keep him clean," she said with an apologetic
shrug of the shoulders and a look at de Batz. " There
now," she added, speaking once more to the child, " drink
like a good boy, and say your lesson to please maman, and
then you shall go to bed."

She took a glass from the table, which was filled with a
dear liquid that de Batz at first took to be water, and held
it to the boy's lips. He turned his head away and began
to whimper.

" Is the medicine very nasty? " queried de Batz.

" Mon Dieu! but no, citizen," exclaimed the woman, " it is

64 ELDORADO

good strong eau de vie, the best that can be procured. Capet
likes it really — don't you, Capet ? It makes you happy and
cheerful, and sleep well of nights. Why, you had a glass-
ful yesterday and enjoyed it. Take it now," she added in a
quick whisper, seeing that Simon and Heron were in close
conversation together; "you know it makes papa angry if
you don't have at least half a glass now and then."

The child wavered for a moment longer, making a quaint
little grimace of distaste. But at last he seemed to make
up his mind that it was wisest to yield over so small a matter,
and he took the glass from Madame Simon.

And thus did de Batz see the descendant of St Louis
quaffing a glass of raw spirit at the bidding of a rough
cobbler's wife, whom he called by the fond and foolish
name sacred to childhood, moman!

Selfish egoist though he was, de Batz turned away in
loathing.

Simon had watched the little scene with obvious satis-
faction. He chuckled audibly when the child drank the
spirit, and called Heron's attention to him, whilst a look of
triumph lit up his wide, pale eyes.

" And now, mon petit," he said jovially, " let the citizen
hear you say your prayers!"

He winked toward de Batz, evidently anticipating a
good deal of enjoyment for the visitor from what was
coming. From a heap of litter in a comer of the room he
fetched out a greasy red bonnet adorned with a tricolour
cockade, and a soiled and tattered flag, which had once been
white, and had golden fleur-de-lys embroidered upon it.

The cap he set on the child's head, and the flag he threw
upon the floor.

" Now, Capet — your prayers ! " he said with another
chuckle of amusement.

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE 66

All his movements were rough, and his speech almost
ostentatiously coarse. He banged against the furniture as
he moved about the room, kicking a footstool out of the
way or knocking over a chair. De Batz instinctively
thought of the perfumed stillness of the rooms at Versailles,
of the army of elegant high-born ladies who had ministered
to the wants of this child, who stood there now before him,
a cap on his yellow hair, and his shoulder held up to his ear
with that gesture of careless indifference peculiar to chil-
dren when they are sullen or uncared for.

Obediently, quite mechanically it seemed, the boy trod
on the flag which Henri IV had borne before him at Ivry,
and le Ro% SoleU had flaunted in the face of the armies of
Europe. The son of the Bourbons was spitting on their
flag, and wiping his shoes upon its tattered folds. With
shrill cracked voice he sang the Carmagnole, " fo ira! jo
irat les aristos a la lanternet" until de Batz himself felt
inclined to stop his ears and to rush from the place in hor-
ror.

Louis XVII, whom the hearts of many had proclaimed
King of France by the grace of God, the child of the Bour-
bons, the eldest son of the Church, was stepping a vulgar
dance over the flag of St. Louis, which he had been taught
to defile. ■ His pale cheeks glowed as he danced, his eyes
shone with the unnatural light kindled in them by the in-
toxicating liquor ; with one slender hand he waved the red
cap with the tricolour cockade, and shouted " Vive la Re-
publique! "

Madame Simon was clapping her hands, looking on the
child with obvious pride, and a kind of rough maternal
affection. Simon was gazing on Heron for approval, and
the latter nodded his head, murmuring words of encourage-
ment and of praise.

66 ELDORADO

" Thy catechism now, Capet — thy catechism," shouted
Simon in a hoarse voice.

The boy stood at attention, cap on head, hands on his
hips, legs wide apart, and feet firmly planted on the fleur-
de-lys, the glory of his forefathers.

" Thy name ? " queried Simon.

" Louis Capet," replied the child in a clear, high-pitched
voice.

" What art thou? "

" A citizen of the Republic of France."

" What was thy father? "

" Louis Capet, ci-devant king, a tyrant who perished by
die will of the people! "

" What was thy mother? "

"A—"

De Batz involuntarily uttered a cry of horror. What-
ever the man's private character was, he had been born a
gentleman, and his every instinct revolted against what he
saw and heard. The scene had positively sickened him.
He turned precipitately towards the door.

"How now, citizen?" queried the Committee's agent
with a sneer. " Are you not satisfied with what you
see?"

" Mayhap the citizen would like to see Capet sitting in
a golden chair," interposed Simon the cobbler with a sneer,
"and me and my wife kneeling and kissing his hand —
what ? "

" 'Tis the heat of the room," stammered de Batz, who was
fumbling with the lock of the door; " my head began to
swim."

" Spit on their accursed flag, then, like a good patriot,
like Capet," retorted Simon gruffly. " Here, Capet, my
son," he added, pulling the boy by the arm with a rough

THE MOST PRECIOUS LIFE IN EUROPE 67

gesture, " get thee to bed ; thou art quite drunk enough to
satisfy any good Republican."

By way of a caress he tweaked the boy's ear and gave
him a prod in the back with his bent knee. He was not wil-
fully unkind, for just now he was not angry with the lad ;
rather was he vastly amused with the effect Capet's prayer
and Capet's recital of his catechism had had on the visitor.

As to the lad, the intensity of excitement in him was
immediately followed by an overwhelming desire for sleep.
Without any preliminary of undressing or of washing, he
tumbled, just as he was, on to the sofa. Madame Simon,
with quite pleasing solicitude, arranged a pillow under his
head, and the very next moment the child was fast asleep.

" 'Tis well, citoyen Simon," said Heron in his turn, going
towards the door. " I'll report favourably on you to the
Committee of Public Security. As for the citoyenne, she
had best be more careful," he added, turning to the woman
Simon with a snarl on his evil face. " There was no cause
to arrange a pillow under the head of that vermin's spawn.
Many good patriots have no pillows to put under their
heads. Take that pillow away ; and I don't like the shoes
on the brat's feet; sabots are quite good enough."

Citoyenne Simon made no reply. Some sort of retort
had apparently hovered on her lips, but had been checked,
even before it was uttered, by a peremptory look from her
husband. Simon the cobbler, snarling in speech but obse-
quious in manner, prepared to accompany the citizen agent
to the door.

De Batz was taking a last look at the sleeping child ; the
uncrowned King of France was wrapped in a drunken sleep,
with the last spoken insult upon his dead mother still hover-
ing on his childish lips.

CHAPTER Vm

ARCADES AMBO

" That is the way we conduct our affairs, citizen," said
Heron gruffly, as he once more led his guest back into his
office.

It was his turn to be complacent now. De Bate, for once
in his life cowed by what he had seen, still wore a look of
horror and disgust upon his florid face.

" What devils you all are I " he said at last

" We are good patriots," retorted Heron, " and the ty-
rant's spawn leads but the life that hundreds of thousands
of children led whilst his father oppressed the people. Nayl
what am I saying? He leads a far better, far happier life.
He gets plenty to eat and plenty of warm clothes. Thou-
sands of innocent children, who have not the crimes of a
despot father upon their conscience, have to starve whilst
he grows fat."

The leer in his face was so evil that once more de Bate
felt that eerie feeling of terror creeping into bis bones.
Here were cruelty and bloodthirsty ferocity personified to
their utmost extent. At thought of the Bourbons, or of
all those whom he considered had been in the past the op-
pressors of the people, Heron was nothing but a wild and
ravenous beast, hungering for revenge, longing to bury his
talons and his fangs into the body of those whose heels had
once pressed on his own neck.

And de Batz knew that even with millions or countless
money at his command he could not purchase from this

ARCADES AMBO 69

carnivorous brute the life and liberty of the son of King
Louis. No amount of bribery would accomplish that; it
would have to be ingenuity pitted against animal force, the
wiliness of the fox against the power of the wolf.

Even now Heron was darting savagely suspicious looks
upon him.

" I shall get rid of the Simons," he said ; " there's some-
thing in that woman's face which I don't trust. They shall
go within the next few hours, or as soon as I can lay my
hands upon a better patriot than that mealy-mouthed cob-
bler. And it will be better not to have a woman about the
place. Let me see — to-day is Thursday, or else Friday
morning. By Sunday I'll get those Simons out of the place.
Methought I saw you ogling that woman," he added, bring-
ing his bony fist crashing down on the table so that papers,
pen, and inkhom rattled loudly; "and if I thought that
you — "

De Batz thought it well at this point to finger once more
nonchalantly the bundle of crisp paper in the pocket of his
coat.

" Only on that one condition," reiterated Heron in a
hoarse voice; " if you try to get at Capet, I'll drag you to
the Tribunal with my own hands."

" Always presuming that you can get me, my friend,"
murmured de Batz, who was gradually regaining his accus-
tomed composure.

Already his active mind was busily at work. One or two
things which he had noted in connection with his visit to the
Dauphin's prison had struck him as possibly useful in his
schemes. But he was disappointed that Heron was getting
rid of the Simons. The woman might have been very use-
ful and more easily got at than a man. The avarice of the
French bourgeoise would have proved a promising factor.

70 ELDORADO

But this, of course, would now be out of the question. At
the same time it was not because Heron raved and stormed
and uttered cries like a hyena that he, de Batz, meant to
give up an enterprise which, if successful, would place mil-
lions into his own pocket.

As for that meddling Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
and his crack-brained followers, they must be effectually
swept out of the way first of all. De Batz felt that they
were the real, the most likely hindrance to his schemes. He
himself would have to go very cautiously to work, since
apparently Heron would not allow him to purchase immu-
nity for himself in that one matter, and whilst he was laying
his plans with necessary deliberation so as to ensure his own
safety, that accursed Scarlet Pimpernel would mayhap
snatch the golden prize from the Temple prison right under
his very nose.

When he thought of that the Gascon Royalist felt just as
vindictive as did the chief agent of the Committee of Gen-
eral Security.

While these thoughts were coursing through de Batz'
head. Heron had been indulging in a volley of vituperation.

"If that little vermin escapes," he said, "my life will
not be worth an hour's purchase. In twenty-four hours I
am a dead man, thrown to the guillotine like those dogs of
aristocrats ! You say I am a night-bird, citizen. I tell you
that I do not sleep night or day thinking of that brat and
the means to keep him safely under my hand. I have never
trusted those Simons — "

" Not trusted them ! " exclaimed de Batz ; " surely you
could not find anywhere more inhuman monsters ! "

" Inhuman monsters ? " snarled Heron. " Bah ! they
don't do their business thoroughly; we want the tyrant's
spawn to become a true Republican and a patriot — ■ aye ! to

ARCADES AMBO 71

make of him such an one that even if you and your cursed
confederates got him by some hellish chance, he would be
no use to you as a king, a tyrant to set above the people, to
set up in your Versailles, your Louvre, to eat off golden
plates and wear satin clothes. You have seen the brat!
By the time he is a man he should forget how to eat save
with his fingers, and get roaring drunk every night. That's
what we want! — to make him so that he shall be no use
to you, even if you did get him away; but you shall not!
You shall not, not if I have to strangle him with my own
hands."

He picked up his short-stemmed pipe and pulled savagely
at it for awhile. De Batz was meditating.

" My friend/' he said after a little while, " you are agita-
ting yourself quite unnecessarily, and gravely jeopardising
your prospects of getting a comfortable little income through
keeping your fingers off my person. Who said I wanted
to meddle with the child ? "

" You had best not," growled Heron.

" Exactly. You have said that before. But do you not
think that you would be far wiser, instead of directing your
undivided attention to my unworthy self, to turn your
thoughts a little to one whom, believe me, you have far
greater cause to fear ? "

"Who is that?"

" The Englishman."

" You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel ? "

"Himself. Have you not suffered from his activity,
friend Heron? I fancy that citizen Chauvelin and citizen
Collot would have quite a tale to tell about him."

" They ought both to have been guillotined for that blun-
der last autumn at Boulogne."

" Take care that the same accusation be not laid at your

7* ELDORADO

door this year, my friend," commented de Batz placidly.

"Bah!"

" The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris even now."

"The devil he is!"

" And on what errand, think you? "

There was a moment's silence, and then de Batz continued
with slow and dramatic emphasis:

" That of rescuing your most precious prisoner from the
Temple."

" How do you know ? " Heron queried savagely.

" I guessed."

"How?"

" I saw a man in the Theatre National to-day . . ."

"Well?"

" Who is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pim-
pernel."

" D him! Where can I find him? "

" Will you sign a receipt for the three thousand five hun-
dred livres, which I am pining to hand over to you, my
friend, and I will tell you ? "

" Where's the money? "

" In my pocket."

Without further words HeVon dragged the inkhorn and
a sheet of paper towards him, took up a pen, and wrote a
few words rapidly in a loose, scrawly hand. He strewed
sand over the writing, then handed it across the table to
de Batz.

" Will that do? " he asked briefly.

The other was reading the note through carefully.

" I see you only grant me a fortnight," he remarked
casually.

" For that amount of money it is sufficient. If you want
an extension you must pay more."

ARCADES AMBO 78

" So be it," assented de Batz coolly, as he folded the
paper across. " On the whole a fortnight's immunity in
France these days is quite a pleasant respite. And I prefer
to keep in touch with you, friend Heron. I'll call on you
again this day fortnight."

He took out a letter-case from his pocket. Out of this
he drew a packet of bank-notes, which he laid on the table
in front of Heron, then he placed the receipt carefully into
the letter-case, and this back into his pocket.

Heron in the meanwhile was counting over the bank-
notes. The light of ferocity had entirely gone from his
eyes; momentarily the whole expression of the face was one
of satisfied greed.

" Well!" he said at last when he had assured himself
that the number of notes was quite correct, and he had
transferred the bundle of crisp papers into an inner pocket
of his coat — "well, what about your friend?"

" I knew him years ago," rejoined de Batz coolly ; " he
is a kinsman of citizen St. Just. I know that he is one of
the confederates of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

" Where does he lodge ? "

" That is for you to find out. I saw him at the theatre,
and afterwards in the green-room; he was making himself
agreeable to the citizeness Lange. I heard him ask for
leave to call on her to-morrow at four o'clock. You know
where she lodges, of course ! "

He watched Heron while the latter scribbled a few words
on a scrap of paper, then he quietly rose to go. He took
up his cloak and once again wrapped it round his shoulders.
There was nothing more to be said, and he was anxious
to go.

The leave-taking between the two men was neither cordial
nor more than barely courteous. De Batz nodded to

74 ELDORADO

Heron, who escorted him to the outside door of his lodg-
ing, and there called loudly to a soldier who was doing
sentinel at the further end of the corridor.

" Show this citizen the way to the guichet," he said curtly.
" Good -night, citizen," he added finally, nodding to de Batz.

Ten minutes later the Gascon once more found himself
in the Rue du Temple between the great outer walls of the
prison and the silent little church and convent of St. Eliza-
beth. He looked up to where in the central tower a small
grated window lighted from within showed the place where
the last of the Bourbons was being taught to desecrate the
traditions of his race, at the bidding of a mender of shoes
— a naval officer cashiered for misconduct and fraud.

Such is human nature in its self-satisfied complacency
that de Batz, calmly ignoring the vile part which he himself
had played in the last quarter of an hour of his interview
with the Committee's agent, found it in him to think of
Heron with loathing, and even of the cobbler Simon with
disgust.

Then with a self-righteous sense of duty performed, and
an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, he dismissed Heron
from his mind.

" That meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel will find his hands
over-full to-morrow, and mayhap will not interfere in my
affairs for some time to come," he mused ; " meseems that
that will be the first time that a member of his precious
League has come within the clutches of such unpleasant
people as the sleuth-hounds of my friend Heron I "

CHAPTER IX

WHAT LOVE CAN DO

" Yesterday you were unkind and ungallant. How
could I smile when you seemed so stern? "

" Yesterday I was not alone with you. How could I say
what lay next my heart, when indifferent ears could catch
the words that were meant only for you ? "

"Ah, monsieur, do they teach you in England how to
make pretty speeches? "

" No, mademoiselle, that is an instinct that comes into
birth by the fire of a woman's eyes."

Mademoiselle Lange was sitting upon a small sofa of
antique design, with cushions covered in faded silks heaped
round her pretty head. Armand thought that she looked
like that carved cameo which his sister Marguerite pos-
sessed.

He himself sat on a low chair at some distance from her.
He had brought her a large bunch of early violets, for he
knew that she was fond of flowers, and these lay upon her
lap, against the opalescent grey of her gown.

She seemed a little nervous and agitated, his obvious ad-
miration bringing a ready blush to her cheeks.

The room itself appeared to Armand to be a perfect
frame for the charming picture which she presented. The
furniture in it was small and old; tiny tables of antique
Vemis-Martin, softly faded tapestries, a pale-toned Aubus-
son carpet. Everything mellow and in a measure pathetic.
Mademoiselle Lange, who was an orphan, lived alone under

76 ELDORADO

the duennaship of a middle-aged relative, a penniless
hanger-on of the successful young actress, who acted as her
chaperone, housekeeper, and maid, and kept unseemly or
over-bold gallants at bay.

She told Armand all about her early life, her childhood
in the backshop of Maitre Meziere, the jeweller, who was a
relative of her mother's; of her desire for an artistic career,
her struggles with the middle-class prejudices of her rela-
tions, her bold defiance of them, and final independence.

She made no secret of her humble origin, her want of
education in those days; on the contrary, she was proud
of what she had accomplished for herself. She was only
twenty years of age, and already held a leading place in the
artistic world of Paris.

Armand listened to her chatter, interested in everything
she said, questioning her with sympathy and discretion-
She asked him a good deal about himself, and about his
beautiful sister Marguerite, who, of course, had been the
most brilliant star in that most brilliant constellation, the
Comedie Francaise. She had never seen Marguerite St
Just act, but, of course, Paris still rang with her praises,
and all art-lovers regretted that she should have married
and left them to mourn for her.

Thus the conversation drifted naturally back to England.
Mademoiselle professed a vast interest in the citizen's coun-
try of adoption.

" I had always," she said, " thought it an ugly country,
with the noise and bustle of industrial life going on every-
where, and smoke and fog to cover the landscape and to
stunt the trees."

. " Then, in future, mademoiselle," he replied, " must you
think of it as one carpeted with verdure, where in the spring
the orchard trees covered with delicate blossom would speak

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 77

to you of fairyland, where the dewy grass stretches its
velvety surface in the shadow of ancient monumental oaks,
and ivy-covered towers rear their stately crowns to the sky."

" And the Scarlet Pimpernel? Tell me about him, mon-
sieur."

" Ah, mademoiselle, what can I tell you that you do not
already know? The Scarlet Pimpernel is a man who has
devoted his entire existence to the benefit of suffering man-
kind. He has hut one thought, and that is for those who
need him ; he hears but one sound — the cry of the op-
pressed."

" But they do say, monsieur, that philanthropy plays but
a sorry part in your hero's schemes. They aver that he
looks on his own efforts and the adventures through which
he goes only in the light of sport."

"Like all Englishmen, mademoiselle, the Scarlet Pim-
pernel is a little ashamed of sentiment. He would deny its
very existence with his lips, even whilst his noble heart
brimmed over with it. Sport? Well! mayhap the sport-
ing instinct is as keen as that of charity — the race for
lives, the tussle for the rescue of human creatures, the
throwing of a life on the hazard of a die."

" They fear him in France, monsieur. He has saved so
many whose death had been decreed by the Committee of
Public Safety."

" Please God, he will save many yet."

" Ah, monsieur, the poor little boy in the Temple prison ! "

"He has your sympathy, mademoiselle?"

" Of every right-minded woman in France, monsieur.
Ohl " she added with a pretty gesture of enthusiasm, clasp-
ing her hands together, and looking at Armand with large'
eyes filled with tears, " if your noble Scarlet Pimpernel will
do aught to save that poor innocent lamb, I would indeed

78 ELDORADO

bless him in my heart, and help him with all my humble
might if I could."

" May God's saints bless you for those words, mademoi-
selle," he said, whilst, carried away by her beauty, her
charm, her perfect femininity, he stooped towards her until
his knee touched the carpet at her feet " I had begun to
lose my belief in my poor misguided country, to think all
men in France vile, and all women base. I could thank
you on my knees for your sweet words of sympathy, for the
expression of tender motherliness that came into your eyes
when you spoke of the poor forsaken Dauphin in the Tern-
Pie"

She did not restrain her tears; with her they came very
easily, just as with a child, and as they gathered in her eyes
and rolled down her fresh cheeks they in no way marred
the charm of her face. One hand lay in her lap fingering
a diminutive bit of cambric, which from time to time she
pressed to her eyes. The other she had almost uncon-
sciously yielded to Armand.

The scent of the violets filled the room. It seemed to
emanate from her, a fitting attribute of her young, wholly
unsophisticated girlhood. The citizen was goodly to look
at; he was kneeling at her feet, and his lips were pressed
against her hand.

Armand was young and he was an idealist. I do not
for a moment imagine that just at this moment he was
deeply in love. The stronger feeling had not yet risen up
in him; it came later when tragedy encompassed him and
brought passion to sudden maturity. Just now he was
merely yielding himself up to the intoxicating moment, with
all the abandonment, all the enthusiasm of the Latin race.
There was no reason why he should not bend the knee before
this exquisite little cameo, that by its very presence was

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 79

giving him an hour of perfect pleasure and of aesthetic joy.
Outside the world continued its hideous, relentless way;
men butchered one another, fought and hated. Here in this
small old-world salon, with its faded satins and bits of ivory-
tinted lace, the outer universe had never really penetrated.
It was a tiny world — quite apart from the rest of man-
kind, perfectly peaceful and absolutely beautiful.

If Armand had been allowed to depart from here now,
without having been the cause as well as the chief actor in
the events that followed, no doubt that Mademoiselle Lange
would always have remained a charming memory with him,
an exquisite bouquet of violets pressed reverently between
the leaves of a favourite book of poems, and the scent of
spring flowers would in after years have ever brought her
dainty picture to his mind.

He was murmuring pretty words of endearment ; carried
away by emotion, his arm stole round her waist ; he felt that
if another tear came like a dewdrop rolling down her cheek
he must kiss it away at its very source. Passion was not
sweeping them off their feet — not yet, for they were very
young, and life had not as yet presented to them its most
unsolvable problem.

But they yielded to one another, to the springtime of their
life, calling for Love, which would come presently hand in
hand with his grim attendant, Sorrow.

Even as Armand's glowing face was at last lifted up to
hers asking with mute lips for that first kiss which she
already was prepared to give, there came the loud noise of
men's heavy footsteps tramping up the old oak stairs, then
some shouting, a woman's cry, and the next moment
Madame Belhomme, trembling, wide-eyed, and in obvious
terror, came rushing into the room.

"Jeanne! Jeanne! My child! It is awful I It is aw-

80 ELDORADO

f ul ! Mon Dieu — mon Dieu! What is to become of us ? "

She was moaning and lamenting even as she ran in, and
now she threw her apron over her face and sank into a chair,
continuing her moaning and her lamentations.

Neither Mademoiselle nor Armand had stirred. They
remained like graven images, he on one knee, she with
large eyes fixed upon his face. They had neither of them
looked on the old woman; they seemed even now uncon-
scious of her presence. But their ears had caught the
sound of that measured tramp of feet up the stairs of the
old house, and the halt upon the landing; they had heard the
brief words of command:

" Open, in the name of the people 1 "

They knew quite well what it all meant; they had not
wandered so far in the realms of romance that reality —
the grim, horrible reality of the moment — had not the
power to bring them back to earth.

That peremptory call to open in the name of the people
was the prologue these days to a drama which had but two
concluding acts : arrest, which was a certainty ; the guillo-
tine, which was more than probable. Jeanne and Armand,
these two young people who but a moment ago had tenta-
tively lifted the veil of life, looked straight into each other's
eyes and saw the hand of death interposed between them :
they looked straight into each other's eyes and knew that
nothing but the hand of death would part them now. Love
had come with its attendant, Sorrow ; but he had come with
no uncertain footsteps. Jeanne looked on the man before
her, and he bent his head to imprint a glowing kiss upon her
hand.

" Aunt Marie ! "

It was Jeanne Lange who spoke, but her voice was no
longer that of an irresponsible child; it was firm, steady and

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 81

hard. Though she spoke to the old woman, she did not
look at her; her luminous brown eyes rested on the bowed
head of Arrnand St. Just.

" Aunt Marie! " she repeated more peremptorily, for the
old woman, with her apron over her head, was still moan-
ing, and unconscious of all save an overmastering fear.

" Open, in the name of the people ! " came in a loud harsh
voice once more from the other side of the front door.

" Aunt Marie, as you value your life and mine, pull your-
self together," said Jeanne firmly.

" What shall we do? Oh! what shall we do?" moaned
Madame Belhomme. But she had dragged the apron away
from her face, and was looking with some puzzlement at
meek, gentle little Jeanne, who had suddenly become so
strange, so dictatorial, all unlike her habitual somewhat diffi-
dent self.

" You need not have the slightest fear, Aunt Marie, if
you will only do as I tell you," resumed Jeanne quietly; " if
you give way to fear, we are all of us undone. As you
value your life and mine," she now repeated authoritatively,
" pull yourself together, and do as I tell you."

The girl's firmness, her perfect quietude had the desired
effect. Madame Belhomme, though still shaken up with
sobs of terror, made a great effort to master herself; she
stood up, smoothed down her apron, passed her hand over
her ruffled hair, and said in a quaking voice :

" What do you think we had better do? "

" Go quietly to the door and open it."

" But — the soldiers — "

" If you do not open quietly they will force the door open
within the next two minutes," interposed Jeanne calmly.
" Go quietly and open the door. Try and hide your
fears, grumble in an audible voice at being inter-

88 ELDORADO

rupted in your cooking, and tell the soldiers at
once that they will find mademoiselle in the boudoir. Go,
for God's sake t " she added, whilst suppressed emotion
suddenly made her young voice vibrate; "go, before they
break open that door ! "

Madame Belhomme, impressed and cowed, obeyed like
an automaton. She turned and marched fairly straight
out of the room. It was not a minute too soon. From
outside had already come the third and final summons:

" Open, in the name of the people I "

After that a crowbar would break open the door.

Madame Belhomme's heavy footsteps were heard cross-
ing the ante-chamber. Armand still knelt at Jeanne's feet,
holding her trembling little hand in his.

" A love-scene," she whispered rapidly, " a love-scene —
quick — do you know one ? "

And even as he had tried to rise she held him back, down
on his knees.

He thought that fear was making her distracted.

" Mademoiselle — " he murmured, trying to soothe her.

" Try and understand," she said with wonderful calm,
" and do as I tell you. Aunt Marie has obeyed. Will you
do likewise? "

" To the death ! " he whispered eagerly.

" Then a love-scene," she entreated. " Surely you know
one. Rodrigue and Chimene! Surely — surely," she
urged, even as tears of anguish rose into her eyes, " you
must — you must, or, if not that, something else. Quick 1
The very seconds are precious ! "

They were indeed! Madame Belhomme, obedient as a
frightened dog, had gone to the door and opened it; even
her well-feigned grumblings could now be heard and the
rough interrogations from the soldiery.

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 88

" Citizeness Lange ! " said a gruff voice.

" In her boudoir, quoi! "

Madame Belhomme, braced up apparently by fear, was
playing her part remarkably well.

"Bothering good citizens! On baking day, tool" she
went on grumbling and muttering.

"Oh, think — think!" murmured Jeanne now in an
agonised whisper, her hot little hand grasping his so tightly
that her nails were driven into his flesh. " You must know
something, that will do — anything — for dear life's
sake. . . . Armand I "

His name — in the tense excitement of this terrible mo-
ment — had escaped her lips.

All in a flash of sudden intuition he understood what she
wanted, and even as the door of the boudoir was thrown
violently open Armand — still on his knees, but with one
hand pressed to his heart, the other stretched upwards to
the ceiling in the most approved dramatic style, was loudly
declaiming :

" Pour venger son honneur il perdit son amour,
Pour venger sa maitresse il a quitte le jour 1 "

Whereupon Mademoiselle Lange feigned the most per-
fect impatience.

" No, no, my good cousin," she said with a pretty moue
of disdain, " that will never do ! You must not thus em-
phasise the end of every line ; the verses should flow more
evenly, as thus. . . ."

Heron had paused at the door. It was he who had
thrown it open — he who, followed by a couple of his sleuth-
hounds, had thought to find here the man denounced by de
Batz as being one of the followers of that irrepressible
Scarlet Pimpernel. The obviously Parisian intonation of

84 ELDORADO

the man kneeling in front of citizeness Lange in an attitude
no ways suggestive of personal admiration, and coolly
reciting verses out of a play, had somewhat taken him
aback.

" What does this mean? " he asked gruffly, striding for-
ward into the room and glaring first at mademoiselle, then
at Armand.

Mademoiselle gave a little cry of surprise.

"Why, if it isn't citizen Heron!" she cried, jumping
up with a dainty movement of coquetry and embarrassment.
" Why did not Aunt Marie announce you ? ... It is in-
deed remiss of her, but she is so ill-tempered on baking days
I dare not even rebuke her. Won't you sit down, citizen
Heron ? And you, cousin/' she added, looking down airily
on Armand, " I pray you maintain no longer that foolish
attitude."

The febrileness of her manner, the glow in her cheeks
were easily attributable to natural shyness in face of this
unexpected visit. Heron, completely bewildered by this
little scene, which was so unlike what he expected, and so
unlike those to which he was accustomed in the exercise of
his horrible duties, was practically speechless before the
little lady who continued to prattle along in a simple, un-
affected manner.

" Cousin," she said to Armand, who in the meanwhile
had risen to his knees, " this is citizen Heron, of whom
you have heard me speak. My cousin Belhomme," she
continued, once more turning to Heron, " is fresh from the
country, citizen. He hails from Orleans, where he has
played leading parts in the tragedies of the late citizen
Corneille. But, ah me ! I fear that he will find Paris au-
diences vastly'more critical than the good Orleanese. Did
you hear him, citizen, declaiming those beautiful verses just

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 85

now? He was murdering them, say I — yes, murdering
them — the gaby I "

Then only did it seem as if she realised that there was
something amiss, that citizen Heron had come to visit her,
not as an admirer of her talent who would wish to pay his
respects to a successful actress, but as a person to be looked
on with dread.

She gave a quaint, nervous little laugh, and murmured
in the tones of a frightened child :

" La, citizen, how glum you look ! I thought you had
come to compliment me on ray latest success. I saw you
at the theatre last night, though you did not afterwards
come to see me in the green-room. Why 1 I had a regular
ovation I Look at my flowers!" she added more gaily,
pointing to several bouquets in vases about the room.
" Citizen Danton brought me the violets himself, and citizen
Santerre the narcissi, and that laurel wreath — is it not
charming? — that was a tribute from citizen Robespierre
himself."

She was so artless, so simple, and so natural that Heron
was completely taken off his usual mental balance. He
had expected to find the usual setting to the dramatic
episodes which he was wont to conduct — screaming wom-
en, a man either at bay, sword in hand, or hiding in a
linen cupboard or up a chimney.

Now everything puzzled him. De Batz — he was quite
sure — had spoken of an Englishman, a follower of the
Scarlet Pimpernel ; every thinking French patriot knew that
all the followers of the Scarlet Pimpernel were Englishmen
with red hair and prominent teeth, whereas this man. . . .

Armand — who deadly danger had primed in his im-
provised role — was striding up and down the room de-
claiming with ever-varying intonations :

" Joignez tous vos efforts contre un espoir si dtrax
Pour en venir a bout, c'est trap peu que de vous."

"No! no!" said mademoiselle impatiently; "you must
not make that ugly pause midway in the last line : ' pour en
venir & bout, c'est trop peu que de vous! ' "

She mimicked Armand's diction so quaintly, imitating
his stride,. his awkward gesture, and his faulty phraseology
with such funny exaggeration that Heron laughed in spite
of himself.

" So that is a cousin from Orleans, is it ? " he asked,
throwing his lanky body into an armchair, which creaked
dismally under his weight.

"Yes I a regular gaby — what?" she said archly.
" Now, citizen Heron, you must stay and take coffee with
me. Aunt Marie will be bringing it in directly. Hector,"
she added, turning to Armand, " come down from the clouds
and ask Aunt Marie to be quick."

This certainly was the first time in the whole of his ex-
perience that Heron had been asked to stay and drink coffee
with the quarry he was hunting down. Mademoiselle's in-
nocent little ways, her desire for the prolongation of his
visit, further addled his brain. De Batz had undoubtedly
spoken of an Englishman, and the cousin from Orleans
was certainly a Frenchman every inch of him.

Perhaps had the denunciation come from any one else but
de Batz, Heron might have acted and thought more cir-
cumspectly; but, of course, the chief agent of the Commit-
tee of General Security was more suspicious of the man
from whom he took a heavy bribe than of any one else in
France. The thought had suddenly crossed his mind that
mayhap de Batz had sent him on a fool's errand in order
to get him safely out of the way of the Temple prison at
a given hour of the day.

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 87

The thought took shape, crystallised, caused him to see
a rapid vision of de Batz sneaking into his lodgings and
stealing his keys, the guard being slack, careless, inatten-
tive, allowing the adventurer to pass barriers that should
have been closed against all comers.

Now Heron was sure of it ; it was all a conspiracy in-
vented by de Batz. He had forgotten all about his theories
that a man under arrest is always safer than a man that is
free. Had his brain been quite normal, and not obsessed,
as it always was now by thoughts of the Dauphin's escape
from prison, no doubt he would have been more suspicious
of Armand, but all his worst suspicions were directed
against de Batz. Armand seemed to him just a fool, an
actor quoit and so obviously not an Englishman.

He jumped to his feet, curtly declining mademoiselle's
offers of hospitality. He wanted to get away at once.
Actors and actresses were always, by tacit consent of the
authorities, more immune than the rest of the community.
They provided the only amusement in the intervals of the
horrible scenes around the scaffolds ; they were irre-
sponsible, harmless creatures who did not meddle in poli-
tics.

Jeanne the while was gaily prattling on, her luminous
eyes fixed upon the all-powerful enemy, striving to read
his thoughts, to understand what went on behind those
cruel, prominent eyes, the chances that Armand had of
safety and of life.

She knew, of course, that the visit was directed against
Armand — some one had betrayed him, that odious de Batz
mayhap — and she was fighting for Armand's safety, for
his life. Her armoury consisted of her presence of mind,
her cool courage, her self-control; she used all these
weapons for his sake, though at times she felt as if the

88 ELDORADO

strain on her nerves would snap the thread of life in her.
The effort seemed more than she could bear.

But she kept up her part, rallying Heron for the short-
ness of his visit, begging him to tarry for another five min-
utes at least, throwing out — with subtle feminine intui-
tion — just those very hints anent little Capet's safety that
were most calculated to send him flying back towards the
Temple.

" I felt so honoured last night, citizen," she said
coquettishly, " that you even forgot little Capet in order
to come and watch my debut as Celimene."

" Forget him I " retorted Heron, smothering a curse, " I
never forget the vermin. I must go back to him ; there are
too many cats nosing round my mouse. Good day to you,
citizeness. I ought to have brought flowers, I know ; but
I am a busy man — a harassed man."

" Je te crois," she said with a grave nod of the head;
" but do come to the theatre to-night. I am playing
Camille — such a fine part! one of my greatest successes."

"Yes, yes, I'll come — mayhap, mayhap — but I'll go
now — glad to have seen you, citizeness. Where does your
cousin lodge?" he asked abruptly.

" Here," she replied boldly, on the spur of the moment.

" Good. Let him report himself to-morrow morning
at the Conciergerie, and get his certificate of safety. It is
a new decree, and you should have one, too."

" Very well, then. Hector and I will come together,
and perhaps Aunt Marie will come too. Don't send us to
maman guillotine yet awhile, citizen," she said lightly ; " you
will never get such another Camille, nor yet so good a
Celimene."

She was gay, artless to the last: She accompanied
Heron to the door herself, chaffing him about his escort.

WHAT LOVE CAN DO 89

" You are an aristo, citizen," she said, gazing with well-
feigned admiration on the two sleuth-hounds who stood in
wait in the anteroom ; " it makes me proud to see so many
citizens at my door. Come and see me play Camille —
come to-night, and don't forget the green-room door —
it will always be kept invitingly open for you."

She bobbed him a curtsey, and he walked out, closely
followed by his two men ; then at last she closed the door
behind them. She stood there for a while, her ear glued
against the massive panels, listening for their measured
tread down the oak staircase. At last it rang more sharply
against the flagstones of the courtyard below ; then she was
satisfied that they had gone, and went slowly back to the
boudoir.

CHAPTER X

The tension on her nerves relaxed; there was the in-
evitable reaction. Her knees were shaking under her, and
she literally staggered into the room.

But Armand was already near her, down on both his
knees this time, his arms clasping the delicate form that
swayed like the slender stems of narcissi in the breeze.

" Oh I you must go out of Paris at once — at once," she
said through sobs which no longer would be kept back.
" He'll return — I know that he will return — and you will
not be safe until you are back in England."

But he could not think of himself or of anything in the
future. He had forgotten Heron, Paris, the world; he
could only think of her,

"I owe my life to you!" he murmured. "Oh, how
beautiful you are — how brave! How I love you!"

It seemed that he had always loved her, from the moment
that first in his boyish heart he had set up an ideal to wor-
ship, and then, last night, in the box of the theatre — he
had his back turned toward the stage, and was ready to
go — her voice had called him back; it had held him spell-
bound ; her voice, and also her eyes. ... He did not know
then that it was Love which then and there had enchained
him. Oh, how foolish he had been ! for now he knew that
he had loved her with all his might, with all his soul, from
the very instant that his eyes had rested upon her.

He babbled along — incoherently — in the intervals of

SHADOWS 91

covering her hands and the hem of her gown with kisses.
He stooped right down to the ground and kissed the arch
of her instep; he had become a devotee worshipping at the
shrine of his saint, who had performed a great and a won-
derful miracle.

Armand the idealist had found his ideal in a woman.
That was the great miracle which the woman herself had
performed for him. He found in her all that he had ad-
mired most, all that he had admired in the leader who
hitherto had been the only personification of his ideal. But
Jeanne possessed all those qualities which had roused his
enthusiasm in the noble hero whom he revered. Her pluck,
her ingenuity, her calm devotion which had averted the
threatened danger from him!

What had he done that she should have risked her own
sweet life for his sake?

But Jeanne did not know. She could not tell. Her
nerves now were somewhat unstrung, and the tears that
always came so readily to her eyes flowed quite unchecked.
She could not very well move, for he held her knees im-
prisoned in his arms, but she was quite content to remain
like this, and to yield her hands to him so that he might
cover them with kisses.

Indeed, she did not know at what precise moment love
for him had been born in her heart. Last night, per-
haps . . . she could not say . . . but when they parted
she felt that she must see him again . . . and then to-
day . . . perhaps it was the scent of the violets . . . they
were so exquisitely sweet . . . perhaps it was his enthu-
siasm and his talk about England . . . but when Heron
came she knew that she must save Armand's life at all
cost . . . that she would die if they dragged him away to
prison.

92 ELDORADO

Thus these two children philosophised, trying to under-
stand the mystery of the birth of Love. But they were
only children; they did not really understand. Passion
was sweeping them off their feet, because a common dan-
ger had bound them irrevocably to one another. The
womanly instinct to save and to protect had given the young
girl strength to bear a difficult part, and now she loved him
for the dangers from which she had rescued him, and he
loved her because she had risked her life for him.

The hours sped on ; there was so much to say, so much
that was exquisite to listen to. The shades of evening
were gathering fast ; the room, with its pale-toned hangings
and faded tapestries, was sinking into the arms of gloom.
Aunt Marie was no doubt too terrified to stir out of her
kitchen ; she did not bring the lamps, but the darkness suited
Armand's mood, and Jeanne was glad that the gloaming
effectually hid the perpetual blush in her cheeks.

In the evening air the dying flowers sent their heady
fragrance around. Armand was intoxicated with the per-
fume of violets that clung to Jeanne's fingers, with the
touch of her satin gown that brushed his cheek, with the
murmur of her voice that quivered through her tears.

No noise from the ugly outer world reached this secluded
spot In the tiny square outside a street lamp had been
lighted, and its feeble rays came peeping in through the
lace curtains at the window. They caught the dainty
silhouette of the young girl, playing with the loose tendrils
of her hair around her forehead, and outlining with a
thin band of light the contour of neck and shoulder,
making the satin of her gown shimmer with an opalescent
glow.

Armand rose from his knees. Her eyes were calling to
him, her lips were ready to yield.

shadows gs

" Tu m'aimes? " he whispered.

And like a tired child she sank upon his breast.

He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips; her skin was fra-
grant as the flowers of spring, the tears on her cheeks
glistened like morning dew.

Aunt Marie came in at last, carrying the lamp. She
found them sitting side by side, like two children, hand
in hand, mute with the eloquence which comes from bound-
less love. They were under a spell, forgetting even that
they lived, knowing nothing except that they loved.

The lamp broke the spell, and Aunt Marie's still trem-
bling voice:

" Oh, my dear! how did you manage to rid yourself of
those brutes?"

But she asked no other question, even when the lamp
showed up quite clearly the glowing cheeks of Jeanne and
the ardent eyes of Armand. In her heart, long since
atrophied, there were a few memories, carefully put away
in a secret cell, and those memories caused the old woman
to understand.

Neither Jeanne nor Armand noticed what she did; the
spell had been broken, but the dream lingered on ; they did
not see Aunt Marie putting the room tidy, and then quietly
tiptoeing out by the door.

But through the dream, reality was struggling for
recognition. After Armand had asked for the hundredth
time : " Tu m'aimes ? " and Jeanne for the hundredth time
had replied mutely with her eyes, her fears for him sud-
denly returned.

Something had awakened her from her trance — a heavy
footstep, mayhap, in the street below, the distant roll of a
drum, or only the clash of steel saucepans in Aunt Marie's

94 ELDORADO

kitchen. But suddenly Jeanne was alert, and with her alert-
ness came terror for the beloved.

"Your life," she said — for he had called her his life
just then, " your life — and I was forgetting that it is still
in danger . . . your dear, your precious life!"

" Doubly dear now," he replied, " since I owe it to you."

" Then I pray you, I entreat you, guard it well for my
sake — make all haste to leave Paris ... oh, this I beg of
you!" she continued more earnestly, seeing the look of
demur in his eyes ; " every hour you spend in it brings dan-
ger nearer to your door."

" I could not leave Paris while you are here."

" But I am safe here," she urged; " quite, quite safe, I
assure you. I am only a poor actress, and the Government
takes no heed of us mimes. Men must be amused, even
between the intervals of killing one another. Indeed, in-
deed, I should be far safer here now, waiting quietly for
awhile, while you make preparations to go . . . My hasty
departure at this moment would bring disaster on us both."

There was logic in what she said. And yet how could
he leave her ? now that he had found this perfect woman —
this realisation of his highest ideals, how could he go and
leave her in this awful Paris, with brutes like Heron for-
cing their hideous personality into her sacred presence,
threatening that very life he would gladly give his own to
keep inviolate?

" Listen, sweetheart," he said after awhile, when pres-
ently reason struggled back for first place in his mind.
" Will you allow me to consult with my chief, with the
Scarlet Pimpernel, who is in Paris at the present moment?
I am under his orders ; I could not leave France just now.
My life, my entire person are at his disposal. I and my
comrades are here under his orders, for a great undertak-

SHADOWS 9fi

ing which he has not yet unfolded to us, but which I firmly
believe is framed for the rescue of the Dauphin from the
Temple."

She gave an involuntary exclamation of horror.

" No, no I " she said quickly and earnestly ; " as far as you
are concerned, Armand, that has now become an impos-
sibility. Some one has betrayed you, and you are hence-
forth a marked man. I think that odious de Bat/, had a
hand in Heron's visit of this afternoon. We succeeded in
putting these spies off the scent, but only for a moment . . .
within a few hours — less perhaps — He*ron will repent him
of his carelessness ; he'll come back — I know that he will
come back. He may leave me, personally, alone; but he
will be on your track ; he'll drag you to the Conciergerie to
report yourself, and there your true name and history are
bound to come to light. If you succeed in evading him,
he will still be on your track. If the Scarlet Pimpernel
keeps you in Paris now, your death will be at his door."

Her voice had become quite hard and trenchant as she
said these last words ; womanlike, she was already prepared
to hate the man whose mysterious personality she had
hitherto admired, now that the life and safety of Armand
appeared to depend on the will of that elusive hero.

" You must not be afraid for me, Jeanne," he urged.
" The Scarlet Pimpernel cares for all his followers ; he
would never allow me to run unnecessary risks."

She was unconvinced, almost jealous now of his en-
thusiasm for that unknown man. Already she had taken
full possession of Armand ; she had purchased his life, and
he had given her his love. She would share neither treas- ,
ure with that nameless leader who held Armand's allegiance.

" It is only for a little while, sweetheart," he reiterated
again and again. " I could not, anyhow, leave Paris

96 ELDORADO

whilst I feel that you are here, maybe in danger. The
thought would be horrible. I should go mad if I had to
leave you."

Then he talked again of England, of his life there, of
the happiness and peace that were in store for them both.

" We will go to England together," he whispered, " and
there we will be happy together, you and I. We will have
a tiny house among the Kentish hills, and its walls will be
covered with honeysuckle and roses. At the back of the
house there will be an orchard, and in May, when the fruit-
blossom is fading and soft spring breezes blow among the
trees, showers of sweet-scented petals will envelop us as we
walk along, falling on us like fragrant snow. You will
come, sweetheart, will you not?"

" If you still wish it, Armand," she murmured.

Still wish it I He would gladly go to-morrow if she
would come with him. But, of course, that could not be
arranged. She had her contract to fulfil at the theatre,
then there would be her house and furniture to dispose of,
and there was Aunt Marie. . . . But, of course, Aunt
Marie would come too. . . . She thought that she could
get away some time before the spring; and he swore that
he could not leave Paris until she came with him.

It seemed a terrible deadlock, for she could not bear to
think of him alone in those awful Paris streets, where she
knew that spies would always be tracking him. She had
no illusions as to the impression which she had made on
Heron; she knew that it could only be a momentary one,
and that Armand would henceforth be in daily, hourly
danger.

At last she promised him that she would take the advice
of his chief; they would both be guided by what he said.
Armand would confide in him to-night, and if it could be

SHADOWS 97

arranged she would hurry on her preparations and, may-
hap, be ready to join him in a week.

" In the meanwhile, that cruel man must not risk your
dear life," she said. " Remember, Armand, your life be-
longs to me. Oh, I could hate him for the love you bear
him!"

" Sh — sh — sh ! " he said earnestly. " Dear heart, you
must not speak like that of the man whom, next to your
perfect self, I love most upon earth."

" You think of him more than of me. I shall scarce live
until I know that you are safely out of Paris."

Though it was horrible to part, yet it was best, perhaps,
that he should go back to his lodgings now, in case Heron
sent his spies back to her door, and since he meant to con-
sult with his chief. She had a vague hope that if the mys-
terious hero was indeed the noble-hearted man whom
Armand represented him to be, surely he would take com-
passion on the anxiety of a sorrowing woman, and release
the man she loved from bondage.

This thought pleased her and gave her hope. She even
urged Armand now -to go.

" When may I see you to-morrow ? " he asked.

" But it will be so dangerous to meet," she argued.

" I must see you. I could not live through the day with-
out seeing you."

" The theatre is the safest place."

" I could not wait till the evening. May I not come
here ? "

" No, no. Heron's spies may be about."

"Where then?"

She thought it over for a moment.

" At the stage-door of the theatre at one o'clock," she
said at last. " We shall have finished rehearsal. Slip into

98 ELDORADO

the gukhet of the concierge. I will tell him to admit you,
and send my dresser to meet you there ; she will bring you
along to my room, where we shall be undisturbed for at
least half an hour."

He had perforce to be content with that, though he would
so much rather have seen her here again, where the faded
tapestries and soft-toned hangings made such a perfect back-
ground for her delicate charm. He had every intention of
confiding in Blakeney, and of asking his help for getting
Jeanne out of Paris as quickly as may be.

Thus this perfect hour was past; the most pure, the
fullest of joy that these two young people were ever des-
tined to know. Perhaps they felt within themselves the
consciousness that their great love would rise anon to yet
greater, fuller perfection when Fate had crowned it with
his halo of sorrow. Perhaps, too, it was that conscious-
ness that gave to their kisses now the solemnity of a last
farewell.

CHAPTER XI

THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

Akhand never could say definitely afterwards whither he
went when he left the Square du Roule that evening. No
doubt he wandered about the streets for some time in an
absent, mechanical way, paying no heed to the passers-by,
none to the direction in which he was going.

His mind was full of Jeanne, her beauty, her courage,
her attitude in face of the hideous bloodhound who had
come to pollute that charming old-world boudoir by his
loathsome presence. He recalled every word she uttered,
every gesture she made.

He was a man in love for the first time — wholly, ir-
remediably in love.

I suppose that it was the pangs of hunger that first re-
called him to himself. It was close on eight o'clock now,
and he had fed on his imaginings — first on anticipation,
then on realisation, and lastly on memory — during the
best part of the day. Now he awoke from his day-dream
to find himself tired and hungry, but fortunately not very
far from that quarter of Paris where food is easily obtain-
able.

He was somewhere near the Madeleine — a quarter he
knew well. Soon he saw in front of him a small eating-
house which looked fairly clean and orderly. He pushed
open its swing-door, and seeing an empty table in a secluded
part of the room, he sat down and ordered some supper.

The place made no impression upon his memory. He

&Y2KASK.

100 ELDORADO

could not have told you an hour later where it was situated,
who had served him, what he had eaten, or what other
persons were present in the dining-room at the time that
he himself entered it.

Having eaten, however, he felt more like his normal self
— more conscious of his actions. When he finally left the
eating-house, he realised, for instance, that it was very
cold — a fact of which he had for the past few hours been
totally unaware. The snow was falling in thin close flakes,
and a biting north-easterly wind was blowing those flakes
into his face and down his collar. He wrapped his cloak
tightly around him. It was a good step yet to Blakeney's
lodgings, where he knew that he was expected.

He struck quickly into the Rue St Honore, avoiding
the great open places where the grim horrors of this magnif-
icent city in revolt against civilisation were displayed in
all their grim nakedness — on the Place de la Revolution
the guillotine, on the Carrousel the open-air camps of
workers under the lash of slave-drivers more cruel than the
uncivilised brutes of the Far West

And Armand had to think of Jeanne in the midst of all
these horrors. She was still a petted actress to-day, but
who could tell if on the morrow the terrible law of the
" suspect " would not reach her in order to drag her before
a tribunal that knew no mercy, and whose sole justice was
a condemnation ?

The young man hurried on ; he was anxious to be among
his own comrades, to hear his chief's pleasant voice, to feel
assured that by all the sacred laws of friendship Jeanne
henceforth would become the special care of the Scarlet
Pimpernel and his league.

Blakeney lodged in a small house situated on the Quai
de I'Ecole, at the back of St. Germain 1'Auxerrois, from

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 101

whence he had a clear and uninterrupted view across the
river, as far as the irregular block of buildings of the
Chatelet prison and the house of Justice.

The same tower-clock that two centuries ago had tolled
the signal for the massacre of the Huguenots was even
now striking nine. Armand slipped through the half-open
porte cochire, crossed the narrow dark courtyard, and ran
up two flights of winding stone stairs. At the top of these,
a door on his right allowed a thin streak of light to filtrate
between its two folds. An iron bell handle hung beside it ;
Armand gave it a pull.

Two minutes later he was amongst his friends. He
heaved a great sigh of content and relief. The very atmos-
phere here seemed to be different. As far as the lodging
itself was concerned, it was as bare, as devoid of comfort
as those sort of places — ■ so-called chambres garnies —
usually were in these days. The chairs looked rickety and
uninviting, the sofa was of black horsehair, the carpet was
threadbare, and in places in actual holes; but there was a
certain something in the air which revealed, in the midst
of all this squalor, the presence of a man of fastidious
taste.

To begin with, the place was spotlessly clean ; the stove,
highly polished, gave forth a pleasing warm glow, even
whilst the window, slightly open, allowed a modicum of
fresh air to enter the room. In a rough earthenware jug
on the table stood a large bunch of Christmas roses, and
to the educated nostril the slight scent of perfumes that
hovered in the air was doubly pleasing after the fetid air
of the narrow streets.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was there, also my Lord Tony, and
Lord Hastings. They greeted Armand with whole-hearted
cheeriness.

108 ELDORADO

" Where is Blakeney ? " asked the young man as soon
as he had shaken his friends by the hand.

" Present I " came in loud, pleasant accents from the
door of an inner room on the right.

And there he stood under the lintel of the door, the man
against whom was raised the giant hand of an entire na-
tion — the man for whose head the revolutionary govern-
ment of France would gladly pay out all the savings of its
Treasury — the man whom human bloodhounds were track-
ing, hot on the scent — for whom the nets of a bitter re-
venge and relentless reprisals were constantly being spread.

Was he unconscious of it, or merely careless? His closest
friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, could not say. Certain it
is that, as he now appeared before Armand, picturesque as
ever in perfectly tailored clothes, with priceless lace at
throat and wrists, his slender fingers holding an enamelled
snuff-box and a handkerchief of delicate cambric, his whole
personality that of a dandy rather than a man of action,
it seemed impossible to connect him with the foolhardy
escapades which had set one nation glowing with enthusiasm
and another clamouring for revenge.

But it was the magnetism that emanated from him that
could not be denied ; the light that now and then, swift as
summer lightning, flashed out from the depths of the blue
eyes usually veiled by heavy, lazy lids, the sudden tightening
of firm lips, the setting of the square jaw, which in a mo-
ment — but only for the space of a second — transformed
the entire face, and revealed the born leader of men.

Just now there was none of that in the dibonnair, easy-
going man of the world who advanced to meet his friend.
Armand went quickly up to him, glad to grasp his hand,
slightly troubled with remorse, no doubt, at the recollection
of his adventure of to-day. It almost seemed to him that

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 108

from beneath his half-closed lids Blakeney had shot a quick
inquiring glance upon him. The quick flash seemed to
light up the young man's soul from within, and to reveal
it, naked, to his friend.

It was all over in a moment, and Armand thought that
mayhap his conscience had played him a trick: there was
nothing apparent in him — of this he was sure — that could
possibly divulge his secret just yet.

" I am rather late, I fear," he said. " I wandered about
the streets in the late afternoon and lost my way in the dark.
I hope I have not kept you all waiting."

They all pulled chairs closely round the fire, except
Blakeney, who preferred to stand. He waited awhile until
they were all comfortably settled, and all ready to listen,
then:

" It is about the Dauphin," he said abruptly without
further preamble.

They understood. All of them had guessed it, almost be-
fore the summons came that had brought them to Paris two
days ago. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had left his young wife
because of that, and Armand had demanded it as a right
to join hands in this noble work. Blakeney had not left
France for over three months now. Backwards and for-
wards between Paris, or Nantes, or Orleans to the coast,
where his friends would meet him to receive those unfortu-
nates whom one man's whole-hearted devotion had rescued
from death; backwards and forwards into the very hearts
of those cities wherein an army of sleuth-hounds were on
his track, and the guillotine was stretching out her arms
to catch the foolhardy adventurer.

Now it was about the Dauphin. They all waited, breath-
less and eager, the fire of a noble enthusiasm burning in
their hearts. They waited in silence, their eyes fixed on

104 ELDORADO

the leader, lest one single word from him should fail to
reach their ears.

The full magnetism of the man was apparent now. As
he held these four men at this moment, he could have held
a crowd. The man of the world — the fastidious dandy —
had shed his mask ; there stood the leader, calm, serene in
the very face of the most deadly danger that had ever en-
compassed any man, looking that danger fully in the face,
not striving to belittle it or to exaggerate it, but weighing
it in the balance with what there was to accomplish: the
rescue of a martyred, innocent child from the hands of
fiends who were destroying his very soul even more com-
pletely than his body.

" Everything, I think, is prepared," resumed Sir Percy
after a slight pause. " The Simons have been summarily
dismissed; I learned that to-day. They remove from the
Temple on Sunday next, the nineteenth. Obviously that is
the one day most likely to help us in our operations. As
far as I am concerned, I cannot make any hard-and-fast
plans. Chance at the last moment will have to dictate. But
from every one of you I must have co-operation, and it
can only be by your following my directions implicitly that
we can even remotely hope to succeed."

He crossed and recrossed the room once or twice before
he spoke again, pausing now and again in his walk in front
of a large map of Paris and its environs that hung upon
the wall, his tall figure erect, his hands behind his back, his
eyes fixed before him as if he saw right through the walls
of this squalid room, and across the darkness that over-
hung the city, through the grim bastions of the mighty
building far away, where the descendant of an hundred
kings lived at the mercy of human fiends who worked for
bis abasement.

LEAGUE OP THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 105

The man's face now was that of a seer and a visionary;
the firm lines were set and rigid as those of an image carved
in stone — the statue of heart-whole devotion, with the
self-imposed task beckoning sternly to follow, there where
lurked danger and death.

" The way, I think, in which we could best succeed would
be this," he resumed after awhile, sitting now on the edge
of the table and directly facing his four friends. The light
from the lamp which stood upon the table behind him fell
full upon those four glowing faces fixed eagerly upon
him, but he himself was in shadow, a massive silhouette
broadly cut out against the light-coloured map on the wall
beyond.

" I remain here, of course, until Sunday," he said, " and
will closely watch my opportunity, when I can with the
greatest amount of safety enter the Temple building and
take possession of the child. I shall, of course choose the
moment when the Simons are actually on the move, with
their successors probably coming in at about the same time..
God alone knows," he added earnestly, " how I shall con-
trive to get possession of the child; at the moment I am
just as much in the dark about that as you are."

He paused a moment, and suddenly his grave face seemed
flooded with sunshine, a kind of lazy merriment danced in
his eyes, effacing all trace of solemnity within them.

" La I " he said lightly, " on one point I am not at all in
the dark, and that is that His Majesty King Louis XVII
will come out of that ugly house in my company next Sun-
day, the nineteenth day of January in this year of grace
seventeen hundred and ninety- four; and this, too, do I
know — that those murderous blackguards shall not lay
hands on me whilst that precious burden is in my keeping.
So I pray you, my good Armand, do not look so glum," he

106 ELDORADO

added with his pleasant, merry laugh ; " you'll need all your
wits about you to help us in our undertaking."

" What do you wish me to do, Percy? " said the young
man simply.

" In one moment I will tell you. I want you all to un-
derstand the situation first. The child will be out of the
Temple on Sunday, but at what hour I know not. The
later it will be the better would it suit my purpose, for I
cannot get him out of Paris before evening with any chance
of safety. Here we must risk nothing; the child is far
better off as he is now than he would be if he were dragged
back after an abortive attempt at rescue. But at this hour
of the night, between nine and ten o'clock, I can arrange to
get him out of Paris by the Villette gate, and that is where
I want you, Ffoulkes, and you, Tony, to be, with some kind
of covered cart, yourselves in any disguise your ingenuity
will suggest. Here are a few certificates of safety; I have
been making a collection of them for some time, as they
are always useful."

He dived into the wide pocket of his coat and drew forth
a number of cards, greasy, much-fingered documents of
the usual pattern which the Committee. of General Secur-
ity delivered to the free citizens of the new republic, and
without which no one could enter or leave any town
or country commune without being detained as " sus-
pect." He glanced at them and handed them over to
Ffoulkes.

" Choose your own identity for the occasion, my good
friend," he said lightly ; " and you too, Tony. You
may be stonemasons or coal-carriers, chimney-sweeps or
farm-labourers, I care not which so long as you
look sufficiently grimy and wretched to be unrecognis-
able, and so long as you can procure a cart without arous-

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 107

ing suspicions, and can wait for me punctually at the ap-
pointed spot."

Ffoulkes turned over the cards, and with a laugh handed
them over to Lord Tony. The two fastidious gentlemen
discussed for awhile the .respective merits of a chimney-
sweep's uniform as against that of a coal-carrier.

" You can carry more grime if you are a sweep," sug-
gested Blakeney; "and if the soot gets into your eyes it
does not make them smart like coal does."

" But soot adheres more closely," argued Tony solemnly,
" and I know that we shan't get a bath for at least a week
afterwards."

" Certainly you won't, you sybarite I " asserted Sir Percy
with a laugh.

" After a week soot might become permanent," mused
Sir Andrew, wondering what, under the circumstance, my
lady would say to him.

" If you are both so fastidious," retorted Blakeney,
shrugging his broad shoulders, " I'll turn one of you into
a reddleman, and the other into a dyer. Then one of you
will be bright scarlet to the end of his days, as the reddle
never comes off the skin at all, and the other will have to
soak in turpentine before the dye will consent to move. . . .
In either case ... oh, my dear Tony! ... the
smell. . . ."

He laughed like a schoolboy in anticipation of a prank,
and held his scented handkerchief to his nose. My Lord
Hastings chuckled audibly, and Tony punched him for this
unseemly display of mirth.

Armand watched the little scene in utter amazement. He
had been in England over a year, and yet he could not un-
derstand these Englishmen. Surely they were the queer-
est, most inconsequent people in the world. Here were

106 ELDORADO

these men, who were engaged at this very moment in an en-
terprise which for cool-headed courage and foolhardy dar-
ing had probably no parallel in history. They were literally
taking their lives in their hands, in all probability facing
certain death; and yet they now sat chaffing and lighting
like a crowd of third-form schoolboys, talking utter, silly
nonsense, and making foolish jokes that would have
shamed a Frenchman in his teens. Vaguely he wondered
what fat, pompous de Batz would think of this discussion
if he could overhear it. His contempt, no doubt, for the
Scarlet Pimpernel and his followers would be increased
tenfold.

Then at last the question of the disguise was effectually
dismissed. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Anthony Dew-
hurst had settled their differences of opinion by solemnly
agreeing to represent two over-grimy and overheated coal-
heavers. They chose two certificates of safety that were
made out in the names of Jean Lepetit and Achille Gros-
pierre, labourers.

" Though you don't look at all like an Achille, Tony,"
was Blakeney's parting shot to his friend.

Then without any transition from this schoolboy non-
sense to the serious business of the moment, Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes said abruptly:

" Tell us exactly, Blakeney, where you will want the cart
to stand on Sunday."

Blakeney rose and turned to the map against the wall,
Ffoulkes and Tony following him. They stood close to
his elbow whilst his slender, nervy hand wandered along
the shiny surface of the varnished paper. At last he placed
his finger on one spot.

" Here you see," he said, " is the Villette gate. Just
outside it a narrow street on the right leads down in the

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 109

direction of the canal. It is just at the bottom of that
narrow street at its junction with the tow-path there that
I want you two and the cart to be. It had better be a coal-
car by the way ; they will be unloading coal close by there
to-morrow," he added with one of his sudden irrepressible
outbursts of merriment. " You and Tony can exercise
your muscles coal-heaving, and incidentally make yourselves
known in the neighbourhood as good if somewhat grimy
patriots."

" We had better take up our parts at once then," said
Tony. " I'll take a fond farewell of my clean shirt to-
night."

" Yes, you will not see one again for some time, my good
Tony. After your hard day's work to-morrow you will
have to sleep either inside your cart, if you have already
secured one, or under the arches of the canal bridge, if you
have not."

" I hope you have an equally pleasant prospect for Has-
tings," was my Lord Tony's grim comment.

It was easy to see that he was as happy as a schoolboy
about to start for a holiday. Lord Tony was a true sports-
man. Perhaps there was in him less sentiment for the
heroic work which he did under the guidance of his chief
than an inherent passion for dangerous adventures. Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, on the other hand, thought perhaps a
little less of the adventure, but a great deal of the martyred
child in the Temple. He was just as buoyant, just as keen
as his friend, but the leaven of sentiment raised his sport-
ing instincts to perhaps a higher plane of self-devotion.

" Well, now, to recapitulate," he said, in turn following
with his finger the indicated route on the map. " Tony and
I and the coal-cart will await you on this spot, at the corner
of the towpath on Sunday evening at nine o'clock."

110 ELDORADO

" And your signal, Blakeney ? " asked Tony.

" The usual one," replied Sir Percy, " the seamew's cry
thrice repeated at brief intervals. But now," he continued,
turning to Armand and Hastings, who had taken no part
in the discussion hitherto, " I want your help a little further
afield."

" I thought so," nodded Hastings.

" The coal-cart, with its usual miserable nag, will carry
us a distance of fifteen or sixteen kilometres, but no more.
My purpose is to cut along the north of the city, and to
reach St. Germain, the nearest point where we can secure
good mounts. There is a farmer just outside the com-
mune; his name is Achard. He has excellent horses, which
I have borrowed before now; we shall want five, of course,
and he has one powerful beast that will do for me, as I
shall have, in addition to my own weight, which is consider-
able, to take the child with me on the pillion. Now you,
Hastings and Armand, will have to start early to-morrow
morning, leave Paris by the Neuilly gate, and from there
make your way to St. Germain by any conveyance you can
contrive to obtain. At St. Germain you must at once find
Achard's farm; disguised as labourers you will not arouse
suspicion by so doing. You will find the fanner quite
amenable to money, and you must secure the best horses you
can get for our own use, and, if possible, the powerful
mount I spoke of just now. You are both excellent horse-
men, therefore I selected you amongst the others for this
special errand, for you two, with the five horses, will have
to come and meet our coal-cart some seventeen kilometres
out of St. Germain, to where the first sign-post indicates
the road to Courbevoie. Some two hundred metres down
this road on the right there is a small spinney, which will
afford splendid shelter for yourselves and your horses. We

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 111

hope to be there at about one o'clock after midnight of
Monday morning. Now, is all that quite clear, and are you
both satisfied?"

"It is quite clear," exclaimed Hastings placidly; "but
I, for one, am not at all satisfied."

"And why not?"

" Because it is all too easy. We get none of the danger."

" Oho 1 I thought that you would bring that argument
forward, you incorrigible grumbler," laughed Sir Percy
good-humouredly. "Let me tell you that if you start to-
morrow from Paris in that spirit you will run your head
and Armand's into a noose long before you reach the gate
of Neuilly. I cannot allow either of you to cover your
faces with too much grime ; an honest farm labourer should
not look over-dirty, and your chances of being discovered
and detained are, at the outset, far greater than those which
Ffoulkes and Tony will run — "

Armand had said nothing during this time. While
Blakeney was unfolding his plan for him and for Lord
Hastings — a plan which practically was a command — he
had sat with his arms folded across his chest, his head sunk
upon his breast. When Blakeney had asked if they were
satisfied, he had taken no part in Hastings' protest nor
responded to his leader's good-humoured banter.

Though he did not look up even now, yet he felt that
Percy's eyes were fixed upon him, and they seemed to scorch
into his soul. He made a great effort to appear eager like
the others, and yet from the first a chill had struck at his
heart He could not leave Paris before he had seen Jeanne.

He looked up suddenly, trying to seem unconcerned; he
even looked his chief fully in the face.

" When ought we to leave Paris? " he asked calmly.

" You must leave at daybreak," replied Blakeney with

-

118 ELDORADO

a slight, almost imperceptible emphasis on the word of com-
mand. " When the gates are first opened, and the work-
people go to and fro at their work, that is the safest hour.
And you must be at St Germain as soon as may be, or the
farmer may not have a sufficiency of horses available at a
moment's notice. I want you to be spokesman with Achard,
so that Hastings' British accent should not betray you both.
Also you might not get a conveyance for St. Germain im-
mediately. We must think of every eventuality, Armand.
There is so much at stake."

Armand made no further comment just then. But the
others looked astonished. Armand had but asked a simple
question, and Blakeney's reply seemed almost like a rebuke
— so circumstantial too, and so explanatory. He was so
used to being obeyed at a word, so accustomed that the
merest wish, the slightest hint from him was understood
by his band of devoted followers, that the long explanation
of his orders which he gave to Armand struck them all with
a strange sense of unpleasant surprise.

Hastings was the first to break the spell that seemed to
have fallen over the party.

" We leave at daybreak, of course," he said, " as soon as
the gates are open. We can, I know, get one of the carriers
to give us a lift as far as St. Germain. There, how do we
find Achard?"

" He is a well-known farmer," replied Blakeney. " You
have but to ask."

" Good. Then we bespeak five horses for the next day,
find lodgings in the village that night, and make a fresh start
back towards Paris in the evening of Sunday. Is that
right ? "

" Yes. One of you will have two horses on the lead, the
other one. Pack some fodder on the empty saddles and

LEAGUE OP THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 11»

start at about ten o'clock. Ride straight along the main
road, as if you were making back for Paris, until you come
to four cross-roads with a sign-post pointing to Courbevoie.
Turn down there and go along the road until you meet a
close spinney of fir-trees on your right. Make for the in-
terior of that. It gives splendid shelter, and you can dis-
mount there and give the horses a feed. We'll join you
one hour after midnight. The night will be dark, I hope,
and the moon anyhow will be on the wane."

" I think I understand. Anyhow, it's not difficult, and
we'll be as careful as maybe."

" You will have to keep your heads clear, both of you,"
concluded Blakeney.

He was looking at Armand as he said this ; but the young
man had not made a movement during this brief colloquy
between Hastings and the chief. He still sat with arms
folded, his head falling on his breast.

Silence had fallen on them all. They all sat round the
fire buried in thought. Through the open window there
came from the quay beyond the hum of life in the open-air
camp; the tramp of the sentinels around it, the words of
command from the drill-sergeant, and through it all the
moaning of the wind and the beating of the sleet against
the window-panes.

A whole world of wretchedness was expressed by those
sounds 1 Blakeney gave a quick, impatient sigh, and going
to the window he pushed it further open, and just then there
came from afar the muffled roll of drums, and from below
the watchman's cry that seemed such dire mockery :

"Sleep, citizens 1 Everything is safe and peaceful."

" Sound advice," said Blakeney lightly. " Shall we also
go to sleep ? What say you all — eh ? "

He had with that sudden rapidity characteristic of hut

1X4 ELDORADO

every action, already thrown off the serious air which he
had worn a moment ago when giving instructions to Has-
tings. His usual debonnair manner was on him once again,
his laziness, his careless insouciance. He was even at this
moment deeply engaged in flicking off a grain of dust from
the immaculate Mechlin ruff at his wrist The heavy lids
had fallen over the tell-tale eyes as if weighted with fatigue,
the mouth appeared ready for the laugh which never was
absent from it very long.

It was only Ffoulkes's devoted eyes that were sharp
enough to pierce the mask of light-hearted gaiety which
enveloped the soul of his leader at the present moment.
He saw — for the first time in all the years that he had
known Blakeney — a frown across the habitually smooth
brow, and though the lips were parted for a laugh, the lines
round mouth and chin were hard and set.

With that intuition born of whole-hearted friendship Sir
Andrew guessed what troubled Percy. He had caught the
look which the latter had thrown on Armand, and knew that
some explanation would have to pass between the two men
before they parted to-night Therefore he gave the signal
for the breaking up of the meeting.

" There is nothing more to say, is there, Blakeney?" he
asked.

" No, my good fellow, nothing," replied Sir Percy. " I
do not know how you all feel, but I am demmed fatigued."

" What about the rags for to-morrow ? " queried Has-
tings.

" You know where to find them. In the room below.
Ffoulkes has the key. Wigs and all are there. But don't
use false hair if you can help it — it is apt to shift in a
scrimmage."

LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 115

He spoke jerkily, more curtly than was his wont. Has-
tings and Tony thought that he was tired. They rose to
say good night. Then the three men went away together,
Arraand remaining behind.

CHAPTER XII

WHAT LOVE IS

" Well, now, Armand, what is it ? " asked Blakeney, the
moment the footsteps of his friends had died away down
the stone stairs, and their voices had ceased to echo in the
distance.

"You guessed, then, that there was . . . something?"
said the younger man, after a slight hesitation.

" Of course."

Armand rose, pushing the chair away from him with an
impatient nervy gesture. Burying his hands in the pockets
of his breeches, he began striding up and down the room,
a dark, troubled expression in his face, a deep frown be-
tween his eyes.

Blakeney had once more taken up his favourite position,
sitting on the corner of the table, his broad shoulders in-
terposed between the lamp and the rest of the room. He
was apparently taking no notice of Armand, but only intent
on the delicate operation of polishing his nails.

Suddenly the young man paused in his restless walk and
stood in front of his friend — an earnest, solemn, deter-
mined figure.

" Blakeney," he said, " I cannot leave Paris to-morrow."

Sir Percy made no reply. He was contemplating the
polish which he had just succeeded in producing on his
thumbnail.

" I must stay here for a while longer," continued Armand
firmly. " I may not be able to return to England for some

WHAT LOVE IS 117

weeks. You have the three others here to help you in your
enterprise outside Paris. I am entirely at your service
within the compass of its walls."

Still no comment from Blakeney, not a look from beneath
the fallen lids. Armand continued, with a slight tone of
impatience apparent in his voice:

" You must want some one to help you here on Sunday.
... I am entirely at your service . . . here or anywhere
in'Paris . . . but I cannot leave this city ... at any rate,
not just yet. . . ."

Blakeney was apparently satisfied at last with the result
of his polishing operations. He rose, gave a slight yawn,
and turned toward the door.

" Good night, my dear fellow," he said pleasantly ; " it is
time we were all abed. I am so demmed fatigued."

" Percy I " exclaimed the young man hotly.

"Eh? What is it? " queried the other lazily.

"You are not going to leave me like this — without a
word ? "

" I have said a great many words, my good fellow. I
have said ' good night,' and remarked that I was demmed
fatigued."

He was standing beside the door which led to his bed-
room, and now he pushed it open with his hand.

" Percy, you cannot go and leave me like this ! " reiterated
Armand with rapidly growing irritation.

" Like what, my dear fellow ? " queried Sir Percy with
good-humoured impatience.

" Without a word — without a sign. What have I done
that you should treat me like a child, unworthy even of at-
tention ? "

Blakeney had turned back and was now facing him,
towering above the slight figure of the younger man. His

118 ELDORADO

face had lost none of its gracious air, and beneath their
heavy lids his eyes looked down not unkindly on his friend.

" Would you have prefered it, Armand," he said quietly,
" if I had said the word that your ears have heard even
though my lips have not uttered it ? "

" I don't understand," murmured Armand defiantly.

" What sign would you have had me make? " continued
Sir Percy, his pleasant voice falling calm and mellow on
the younger man's supersensitive consciousness : " That of
branding you, Marguerite's brother, as a liar and a cheat? "

" Blakeney! " retorted the other, as with flaming cheeks
and wrathful eyes he took a menacing step toward his
friend ; " had any man but you dared to speak such words
to me — "

" I pray to God, Armand, that no man but I has the right
to speak them."

" You have no right."

"Every right, my friend. Do I not hold your oath?
. . . Are you not prepared to break it ? "

" I'll not break my oath to you. I'll serve and help you
in every way you can command . . . my life I'll give to
the cause . . . give me the most dangerous — the most
difficult task to perform. . . . I'll do it — I'll do it
gladly."

" I have given you an over-difficult and dangerous task."

" Bah 1 To leave Paris in order to engage horses, while
you and the others do all the work. That is neither difficult
nor dangerous."

" It will be difficult for you, Armand, because your head
is not sufficiently cool to foresee serious eventualities and to
prepare against them. It is dangerous, because you are a
man in love, and a man in love is apt to run his head — and
that of his friends — blindly into a noose."

WHAT LOVE IS 119

" Who told you that I was in love? "

" You yourself, my good fellow. Had you not told me
so at the outset," he continued, still speaking very quietly
and deliberately and never raising his voice, " I would even
now be standing over you, dog-whip in hand, to thrash you
as a defaulting coward and a perjurer. . . . Bah 1 " he
added with a return to his habitual bonhomie, " I would no
doubt even have lost my temper with you. Which would
have been purposeless and excessively bad form. Eh ? "

A violent retort had sprung to Armand's lips. But for-
tunately at that very moment his eyes, glowing with anger,
caught those of Blakeney fixed with lazy good-nature upon
his. Something of that irresistible dignity which pervaded
the whole personality of the man checked Armand's hot-
headed words on his lips.

" I cannot leave Paris to-morrow," he reiterated more
calmly.

" Because you have arranged to see her again ? "

" Because she saved my life to-day, and is herself in
danger."

" She is in no danger," said Blakeney simply, " since she
saved the life of my friend."

"Percy I"

The cry was wrung from Armand St Just's very soul.
Despite the tumult of passion which was raging in his heart,
he was conscious again of the magnetic power which
bound so many to this man's service. The words he had
said — simple though they were — had sent a thrill through
Armand's veins. He felt himself disarmed. His resist-
ance fell before the subtle strength of an unbendable will;
nothing remained in his heart but an overwhelming sense
of shame and of impotence.

He sank into a chair and rested his elbows on the table,

-

180 ELDORADO

burying his face in his hands. Blakeney went up to him
and placed a kindly hand upon his shoulder.

" The difficult task, Armand," he said gently.

" Percy, cannot you release me? She saved my life. I
have not thanked her yet"

" There will be time for thanks later, Armand. Just now
over yonder the son of kings is being done to death by
savage brutes."

" I would not hinder you if I stayed."

" God knows you have hindered us enough already."

"How?"

" You say she saved your life . . . then you were in
danger . . . Heron and his spies have been on your track
. . . your track leads to mine, and I have sworn to save
the Dauphin from the hands of thieves. ... A man in love,
Armand, is a deadly danger among us. . . . Therefore at
daybreak you must leave Paris with Hastings on your diffi-
cult and dangerous task."

"And if I refuse?" retorted Armand.

" My good fellow," said Blakeney earnestly, " in that ad-
mirable lexicon which the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
has compiled for itself there is no such word as refuse."

" But if I do refuse? " persisted the other.

" You would be offering a tainted name and tarnished
honour to the woman you pretend to love."

" And you insist upon my obedience ? "

" By the oath which I hold from you."

" But this is cruel — inhuman ! "

" Honour, my good Armand, is often cruel and seldom
human. He is a godlike taskmaster, and we who call our-
selves men are all of us his slaves."

" The tyranny comes from you alone. You could release
me an you would."

WHAT LOVE IS 1S1

"And to gratify the selfish desire of immature passion,
you would wish to see me jeopardise the life of those who
place infinite trust in me."

" God knows how you have gained their allegiance, Blake-
ney. To me now you are selfish and callous."

" There is the difficult task you craved for, Armand,"
was all the answer that Blakeney made to the taunt — " to
obey a leader whom you no longer trust."

But this Armand could not brook. He had spoken hotly,
impetuously, smarting under the discipline which thwarted
his desire, but his heart was loyal to the chief whom he had
reverenced for so long.

" Forgive me, Percy," he said humbly; " I am distracted.
I don't think I quite realised what I was saying. I trust
you, of course . . . implicitly . . . and you need not even
fear ... I shall not break my oath, though your orders
now seem to me needlessly callous and selfish. ... I will
obey . . . you need not be afraid."

" I was not afraid of that, my good fellow."

" Of course, you do not understand . . . you cannot.
... To you, your honour, the task which you have set
yourself, has been your only fetish. . . . Love in its true
sense does not exist for you. ... I see it now . . . you do
not know what it is to love."

Blakeney made no reply for the moment. He stood in
the centre of the room, with the yellow light of the lamp
falling full now upon his tall powerful frame, immaculately
dressed in perfectly-tailored clothes, upon his long, slender
hands half hidden by filmy lace, and upon his face, across
which at this moment a heavy strand of curly hair threw a
curious shadow. At Armand's words his lips had imper-
ceptibly tightened, his eyes had narrowed as if they tried to
see something that was beyond the range of their focus.

186 ELDORADO

Across the smooth brow the strange shadow made by the
hair seemed to find a reflex from within. Perhaps the
reckless adventurer, the careless gambler with life and
liberty, saw through the walls of this squalid room, across
the wide, ice-bound river, and beyond even the gloomy pile
of buildings opposite, a cool, shady garden at Richmond, a
velvety lawn sweeping down to the river's edge, a bower of
clematis and roses, with a carved stone seat half covered
with moss. There sat an exquisitely beautiful woman with
great sad eyes fixed on the far-distant horizon. The setting
sun was throwing a halo of gold all round her hair, her
white hands were clasped idly on her lap.

She gazed out beyond the river, beyond the sunset, to-
ward an unseen bourne of peace and happiness, and her
lovely face had in it a look of utter hopelessness and of sub-
lime self-abnegation. The air was still. It was late
autumn, and all around her the russet leaves of beech and
chestnut fell with a melancholy hush-sh-sh about her feet.

She was alone, and from time to time heavy tears gath-
ered in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.

Suddenly a sigh escaped the man's tightly-pressed lips.
With a strange gesture, wholly unusual to him, he passed
his hand right across his eyes.

" Mayhap you are right, Armand," he said quietly ; " may-
hap I do not know what it is to love."

Armand turned to go. There was nothing more to be
said. He knew Percy well enough by now to realise the
finality of his pronouncements. His heart felt sore, but
he was too proud to show his hurt again to a man who did
not understand. All thoughts of disobedience he had put
resolutely aside; he had never meant to break his oath. All
that he had hoped to do was to persuade Percy to release
him from it for awhile.

WHAT LOVE IS 123

That by leaving Paris he risked to lose Jeanne he was
quite convinced, but it is nevertheless a true fact that in
spite of this he did not withdraw his love and trust from
his chief. He was under the influence of that same mag-
netism which enchained all his comrades to the will of this
man ; and though his enthusiasm for the great cause had
somewhat waned, his allegiance to its leader was no longer
tottering.

But he would not trust himself to speak again on the
subject.

" I will find the others downstairs," was all he said, " and
will arrange with Hastings for to-morrow. Good night,
Percy."

" Good night, my dear fellow. By the way, you have
not told me yet who she is."

" Her name is Jeanne Lange," said St. Just half reluc-
tantly. He had not meant to divulge his secret quite so
fully as yet.

" The young actress at the Theatre National? "

" Yes. Do you know her? "

" Only by name."

" She is beautiful, Percy, and she is an angel. . . . Think
of my sister Marguerite . . . she, too, was an actress. . . ,
Good night, Percy."

" Good night."

The two men grasped one another by the hand. Ar-
mand's eyes proffered a last desperate appeal. But Blake-
ney's eyes were impassive and unrelenting, and Armand with
a quick sigh finally took his leave.

For a long while after he had gone Blakeney stood silent
and motionless in the middle of the room. Armand's last
words lingered in his ear :

" Think of Marguerite ! "

134 ELDORADO

The walls had fallen away from around him — the win-
dow, the river below, the Temple prison had all faded away,
merged in the chaos of his thoughts.

Now he was no longer in Paris; he heard nothing of the
horrors that even at this hour of the night were raging
around him; he did not hear the call of murdered victims,
of innocent women and children crying for help; he did not
see the descendant of St Louis, with a red cap on his baby
head, stamping on the Heur~de-lys, and heaping insults on
the memory of his mother. All that had faded into noth-
ingness.

He was in the garden at Richmond, and Marguerite was
sitting on the stone seat, with branches of the rambler roses
twining themselves in her hair.

He was sitting on the ground at her feet, his head pillowed
in her lap, lazily dreaming, whilst at his feet the river wound
its graceful curves beneath overhanging willows and tall
stately elms.

A swan came sailing majestically down the stream, and
Marguerite, with idle, delicate hands, threw some crumbs
of bread into the water. Then she laughed, for she was
quite happy, and anon she stooped, and he felt the fragrance
of her lips as she bent over him and savoured the perfect
sweetness of her caress. She was happy because her hus-
band was by her side. He had done with adventures, with
risking his life for others' sake. He was living only for
her.

The man, the dreamer, the idealist that lurked behind the
adventurous soul, lived an exquisite dream as he gazed upon
that vision. He closed his eyes so that it might last all the
longer, so that through the open window opposite he should
not see the great gloomy walls of the labyrinthine building

WHAT LOVE IS 185

packed to overflowing with innocent men, women, and chil-
dren waiting patiently and with a smile on their lips for a
cruel and unmerited death; so that he should not see even
through the vista of houses and of streets that grim Temple
prison far away, and the light in one of the tower windows,
which illumined the final martyrdom of a boy-king.

Thus he stood for fully five minutes, with eyes deliber-
ately closed and lips tightly set. Then the neighbouring
tower-clock of St. Germain l'Auxerrois slowly tolled the
hour of midnight. Blakeney woke from his dream. The
walls of his lodging were once more around him, and
through the window the ruddy light of some torch in the
street below fought with that of the lamp.

He went deliberately up to the window and looked out
into the night. On the quay, a little to the left, the outdoor
camp was just breaking up for the night. The people of
France in arms against tyranny were allowed to put away
their work for the day and to go to their miserable homes
to gather rest in sleep for the morrow. A band of soldiers,
rough and brutal in their movements, were hustling the
women and children. The little ones, weary, sleepy, and
cold, seemed too dazed to move. One woman had two
little children clinging to her skirts; a soldier suddenly
seized one of them by the shoulders and pushed it along
roughly in front of him to get it out of the way. The
woman struck at the soldier in a stupid, senseless, useless
way, and then gathered her trembling chicks under her wing,
trying to look defiant.

In a moment she was surrounded. Two soldiers seized
her, and two more dragged the children away from her.
She screamed and the children cried, the soldiers swore and
struck out right and left with their bayonets. There was

1«6 ELDORADO

a general mHit, calls of agony rent the air, rough oaths
drowned the shouts of the helpless. Some women, panic-
stricken, started to run.

And Blakeney from his window looked down upon the
scene. He no longer saw the garden at Richmond, the
lazily-flowing river, the bowers of roses; even the sweet
face of Marguerite, sad and lonely, appeared dim and far
away.

He looked across the ice-bound river, past the quay where
rough soldiers were brutalising a number of wretched de-
fenceless women, to that grim Chatelet prison, where tiny
lights shining here and there behind barred windows told
the sad tale of weary vigils, of watches through the night,
when dawn would bring martyrdom and death.

And it was not Marguerite's blue eyes that beckoned to
him now, it was not her lips that called, but the wan face
of a child with matted curls hanging above a greasy fore-
head, and small hands covered in grime that had once been
fondled by a Queen.

The adventurer in him had chased away the dream.

" While there is life in me I'll cheat those brutes of prey,"
he murmured.

CHAPTER XIII

THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK

The night that Armand St. Just spent tossing about on
a hard, narrow bed was the most miserable, agonising one
he had ever passed in his life. A kind of fever ran through
him, causing his teeth to chatter and the veins in his tem-
ples to throb until he thought that they must burst.

Physically he certainly was ill; the mental strain caused
by two great conflicting passions had attacked his bodily
strength, and whilst his brain and heart fought their battles
together, his aching limbs found no repose.

His love for Jeanne 1 His loyalty to the man to whom
he owed his life, and to whom he had sworn allegiance and
implicit obedience 1

These super-acute feelings seemed to be tearing at his
very heartstrings, until he felt that he could no longer lie
on the miserable palliasse which in these squalid lodgings
did duty for a bed.

He rose long before daybreak, with tired back and burn-
ing eyes, but unconscious of any pain save that which tore
at his heart.

The weather, fortunately, was not quite so cold — a sud-
den and very rapid thaw had set in; and when after a
hurried toilet Armand, carrying a bundle under his arm,
emerged into the street, the mild south wind struck pleas-
antly on his face.

It was then pitch dark. The street lamps had been ex-
tinguished long ago, and the feeble January sun had not

128 ELDORADO

yet tinged with pale colour the heavy clouds that hung over
the sky.

The streets of the great city were absolutely deserted at
this hour. It lay, peaceful and still, wrapped in its mantle
of gloom. A thin rain was falling, and Armand's feet, as
he began to descend the heights of Montmartre, sank ankle
deep in the mud of the road. There was but scanty at-
tempt at pavements in this outlying quarter of the town,
and. Armand had much ado to keep his footing on the un-
even and intermittent stones that did duty for roads in
these parts. But this discomfort did not trouble him just
now. One thought — and one alone — was dear in his
mind : he must see Jeanne before he left Paris.

He did not pause to think how he could accomplish that
at this hour of the day. All he knew was that he must obey
his chief, and that he must see Jeanne. He would see her,
explain to her that he must leave Paris immediately, and beg
her to make her preparations quickly, so that she might
meet him as soon as maybe, and accompany him to England
straight away.

He did not feel that he was being disloyal by trying to
see Jeanne. He had thrown prudence to the winds, not
realising that his imprudence would and did jeopardise, not
only the success of his chief's plans, but also his life and
that of his friends. He had before parting from Hastings
last night arranged to meet him in the neighbourhood of the
Neuilly Gate at seven o'clock ; it was only six now. There
was plenty of time for him to rouse the concierge at the
house of the Square du Roule, to see Jeanne for a few mo-
ments, to slip into Madame Belhomme's kitchen, and there
into the labourer's clothes which he was carrying in the bun-
dle under his arm, and to be at the gate at the appointed
hour.

THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK 129

The Square du Roule is shut off from the Rue St. Honore,
on which it abuts, by tall iron gates, which a few years ago,
when the secluded little square was a fashionable quarter
of the city, used to be kept closed at night, with a watchman
in uniform to intercept midnight prowlers. Now these
gates had been rudely torn away from their sockets, the
iron had been sold for the benefit of the ever-empty Treas-
ury, and no one cared if the homeless, the starving, or the
evil-doer found shelter under the porticoes of the houses,
from whence wealthy or aristocratic owners had long since
thought it wise to flee.

No one challenged Armand when he turned into the
square, and though the darkness was intense, he made his
way fairly straight for the house where lodged Mademoiselle
Lange.

So far he had been wonderfully lucky. The foolhardi-
ness with which he had exposed his life and that of his
friends by wandering about the streets of Paris at this
hour without any attempt at disguise, though carrying one
under his arm, had not met with the untoward fate which
it undoubtedly deserved. The darkness of the night and
the thin sheet of rain as it fell had effectually wrapped his
progress through the lonely streets in their beneficent man-
tle of gloom; the soft mud below had drowned the echo of
his footsteps. If spies were on his track, as Jeanne had
feared and Blakeney prophesied, he had certainly succeeded
in evading them.

He pulled the concierge's bell, and the latch of the outer
door, manipulated from within, duly sprang open in re-
sponse. He entered, and from the lodge the concierge's
voice emerging, muffled from the depths of pillows and
blankets, challenged him with an oath directed at the un-
seemliness of the hour.

180 ELDORADO

" Mademoiselle Lange," said Armand boldly, as with-
out hesitation he walked quickly past the lodge making
straight for the stairs.

It seemed to him that from the concierge's room loud
vituperations followed him, but he took no notice of these ;
only a short flight of stairs and one more door separated
him from Jeanne.

He did not pause to think that she would in all probabil-
ity be still in bed, that he might have some difficulty in
rousing Madame Belhomme, that the latter might not even
care to admit him ; nor did he reflect on the glaring impru-
dence of his actions. He wanted to see Jeanne, and she was
the other side of that wall

"Hi, citizen! Hold! Here! Curse you! Where are
you? " came in a gruff voice to him from below.

He had mounted the stairs, and was now on the landing
just outside Jeanne's door. He pulled the bell-handle, and
heard the pleasing echo of the bell that would presently
wake Madame Belhomme and bring her to the door.

"Citizen! Hold! Curse you for an aristo! What are
you doing there?"

The concierge, a stout, elderly man, wrapped in a blanket,
his feet thrust in slippers, and carrying a guttering tallow
candle, had appeared upon the' landing.

He held the candle up so that its feeble flickering rays
fell on Armand's pale face, and on the damp cloak which
fell away from his shoulders.

"What are you doing there?" reiterated the concierge
with another oath from his prolific vocabulary.

" As you see, citizen," replied Armand politely, " I am
ringing Mademoiselle Lange's front door bell."

" At this hour of the morning? " queried the man with a
sneer.

THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK 181

" I desire to see her."

" Then you have come to the wrong house, citizen," said
the concierge with a rude laugh.

" The wrong house ? What do you mean ? " stammered
Armand, a little bewildered.

" She is not here — quoil " retorted the concierge, who
now turned deliberately on his heel. " Go and look for her,
citizen ; it'll take you some time to find her."

He shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. Armand
was vainly trying to shake himself free from a sudden, an
awful sense of horror.

He gave another vigorous pull at the bell, then with one
bound he overtook the concierge, who was preparing to
descend the stairs, and gripped him peremptorily by the
arm.

"Where is Mademoiselle Lange?" he asked.

His voice sounded quite strange in his own ear; his throat
felt parched, and he had to moisten his lips with his tongue
before he was able to speak.

" Arrested," replied the man.

"Arrested? When? Where? How?"

" When — late yesterday evening. Where ? — here in
her room. How? — by the agents of the Committee of
General Security. She and the old woman I Basta!
that's all I know. Now I am going back to bed, and you
clear out of the house. You are making a disturbance, and
I shall be reprimanded. I ask you, is this a decent time for
rousing honest patriots out of their morning sleep? "

He shook his arm free from Armand's grasp and once
more began to descend.

Armand stood on the landing like a man who has been
stunned by a blow on the head. His limbs were paralysed.
He could not for the moment have moved or spoken if his

182 ELDORADO

life had depended on a sign or on a word. His brain was
reeling, and he had to steady himself with his hand against
the wall or he would have fallen headlong on the floor. He
had lived in a whirl of excitement for the past twenty-four
hours ; his nerves during that time had been kept at straining
point Passion, joy, happiness, deadly danger, and moral
fights had worn his mental endurance threadbare; want of
proper food and a sleepless night had almost thrown his
physical balance out of gear. This blow came at a moment
when he was least able to bear it.

Jeanne had been arrested ! Jeanne was in the hands of
those brutes, whom he, Armand, had regarded yesterday
with insurmountable loathing! Jeanne was in prison —
she was arrested — she would be tried, condemned, and all
because of him 1

The thought was so awful that it brought him to the
verge of mania. He watched as in a dream the form of
the concierge shuffling his way down the oak staircase ; his
portly figure assumed Gargantuan proportions, the candle
which he carried looked like the dancing flames of hell,
through which grinning faces, hideous and contortioned,
mocked at him and leered.

Then suddenly everything was dark. The light had dis-
appeared round the bend of the stairs; grinning faces and
ghoulish visions vanished; he only saw Jeanne, his dainty,
exquisite Jeanne, in the hands of those brutes. He saw
her as he had seen a year and a half ago the victims of those
bloodthirsty wretches being dragged before a tribunal that
was but a mockery of justice ; he heard the quick interroga-
tory, and the responses from her perfect lips, that exquisite
voice of hers veiled by tones of anguish. He heard the con-
demnation, the rattle of the tumbril on the ill-paved streets
— saw her there with hands clasped together, her eyes —

THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK 133

Great God I he was really going mad !

Like a wild creature driven forth he started to run down
the stairs, past the concierge, who was just entering his
lodge, and who now turned in surly anger to watch this
man running away like a lunatic or a fool, out by the front
door and into the street In a moment he was out of the
little square; then like a hunted hare he still ran down the
Rue St. Honore, along its narrow, interminable length. His
hat had fallen from his head, his hair was wild all round
his face, the rain weighted the cloak upon his shoulders ; but
still he ran.

His feet made no noise on the muddy pavement. He ran
on and on, his elbows pressed to his sides, panting, quiver-
ing, intent but upon one thing — the goal which he had set
himself to reach.

Jeanne was arrested. He did not know where to look
for her, but he did know whither he wanted to go now as
swiftly as his legs would carry him.

It was still dark, but Armand St Just was a born Pari-
sian, and he knew every inch of this quarter, where he and
Marguerite had years ago lived. Down the Rue St Hon-
ored he had reached the bottom of the interminably long
street at last. He had kept just a sufficiency of reason —
or was it merely blind instinct? — to avoid the places where
the night patrols of the National Guard might be on the
watch. He avoided the Place du Carrousel, also the quay,
and struck sharply to his right until he reached the facade
of St. Germain l'Auxerrois.

Another effort ; round the corner, and there was the house
at last. He was like the hunted creature now that has run
to earth. Up the two flights of stone stairs, and then the
pull at the bell ; a moment of tense anxiety, whilst panting,
gasping, almost choked with the sustained effort and the

134

ELDORADO

strain of the past half-hour, he leaned against the wall, striv-
ing not to fall.

Then the well-known firm step across the rooms beyond,
the open door, the hand upon his shoulder.

After that he remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CHIEF

He had not actually fainted, but the exertion of that long
run had rendered him partially unconscious. He knew now
that he was safe, that he was sitting in Blakeney's room, and
that something hot and vivifying was being poured down
his throat.

"Percy, they have arrested her!" he said, panting, as
soon as speech returned to his paralysed tongue.

" All right. Don't talk now. Wait till you are better."

With infinite care and gentleness Blakeney arranged some
cushions under Armand's head, turned the sofa towards the
fire, and anon brought his friend a cup of hot coffee, which
the latter drank with avidity.

He was really too exhausted to speak. He had contrived
to tell Blakeney, and now Blakeney knew, so everything
would be all right. The inevitable reaction was asserting
itself; the muscles had relaxed, the nerves were numbed,
and Armand lay back on the sofa with eyes half closed,
unable to move, yet feeling his strength gradually returning
to him, his vitality asserting itself, all the feverish excite-
ment of the past twenty-four hours yielding at last to a
calmer mood.

Through his half-closed eyes he could see his brother-in-
law moving about the room. Blakeney was fully dressed.
In a sleepy kind of way Armand wondered if he had been
to bed at all; certainly his clothes set on him with their
usual well-tailored perfection, and there was no suggestion
13*

186 ELDORADO

in his brisk step and alert movements that he had passed a
sleepless night.

Now he was standing by the open window. Armand,
from where he lay, could see his broad shoulders sharply
outlined against the grey background of the hazy winter
dawn. A wan light was just creeping up from the east
over the city; the noises of the streets below came distinctly
to Armand's ear.

He roused himself with one vigorous effort from his
lethargy, feeling quite ashamed of himself and of this
breakdown of his nervous system. He looked with frank
admiration on Sir Percy, who stood immovable and silent
by the window — a perfect tower of strength, serene and
impassive, yet kindly in distress.

" Percy," said the young man, " I ran all the way from
the top of the Rue St Honore. I was only breathless. I
am quite all right. May I tell you all about it ? "

Without a word Blakeney closed the window and came
across to the sofa ; he sat down beside Armand, and to all
outward appearances he was nothing now but a kind and
sympathetic listener to a friend's tale of woe. Not a line
in his face or a look in his eyes betrayed the thoughts of
the leader who had been thwarted at the outset of a danger-
ous enterprise, or of the man, accustomed to command, who
had been so flagrantly disobeyed.

Armand, unconscious of all save of Jeanne and of her
immediate need, put an eager hand on Percy's arm.

" Heron and his hell-hounds went back to her lodgings
last night," he said, speaking as if he were still a little out of
breath. " They hoped to get me, no doubt ; not finding me
there, they took her. Oh, my God ! "

It was the first time that he had put the whole terrible cir-
cumstance into words, and it seemed to gain in reality by

THE CHIEF 187

the recounting. The agony of mind which he endured
was almost unbearable; he hid his face in his hands lest
Percy should see how terribly he suffered.

" I knew that," said Blakeney quietly.

Armand looked up in surprise.

"How? When did you know it?" he stammered.

"Last night when you left me. I went down to the
Square du Roule. I arrived there just too late."

" Percy ! " exclaimed Armand, whose pale face had sud-
denly flushed scarlet, "you did that? — last night you — "

"Of course," interposed the other calmly; "had I not
promised you to keep watch over her? When I heard the
news it was already too late to make further inquiries, but
when you arrived just now I was on the point of starting
out, in order to find out in what prison Mademoiselle Lange
is being detained. I shall have to go soon, Armand, before
the guard is changed at the Temple and the Tuileries. This
is the safest time, and God knows we are all of us suffi-
ciently compromised already."

The flush of shame deepened in St. Just's cheek. There
had not been a hint of reproach in the voice of his chief,
and the eyes which regarded him now from beneath the
half-closed lids showed nothing but lazy bonhomie.

In a moment now Armand realised all the harm which
his recklessness had done, was still doing to the work of
the League. Every one of his actions since his arrival
in Paris two days ago had jeopardised a plan or endangered
a life: his friendship with de Batz, his connection with
Mademoiselle Lange, his visit to her yesterday afternoon,
the repetition of it this morning, culminating in that wild
run through the streets of Paris, when at any moment a
spy lurking round a corner might either have barred his
way, or, worse still, have followed him to Blakeney's door.

rm ELDORADO

Armaad, wfttiwat a tS&oag&t <-A any fjm save a i Eds ibeiivcri.
night aady this nyjcnrcg; bore heiK2g£t an agent <i£ t&*
Cunnuttcc (A General S miu i' ity face to face wren Eihs ^jirf

* Percy," be wesnasmd, " can too. ever ibcgcie sne? ™

"Pshaw, mam'-" retorted Bbkeney Eginir: "i&ere is
nanght to forgive, only a great deal tfcat jfcocJd no longer
be forgotten; your duty to the others for ms ancr, yoar
obedience, and your honour,"

** I was mad, Percy. Ob ! if you only cod'.d anderstand
what the mean* to me!"

Blakeney laughed, his own light-hearted careless langh,
whkh to often before now bad helped to hide what be
really felt from the eyes of the indifferent, and even from
those of his friends.

" No! no! " he said lightly, " we agreed last night, did
we not? that in matters of sentiment I am a cold-blooded
fish. But will you at any rate concede that I am a man of
my word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle
Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I
heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before
mat brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me
by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been
arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on
that account ? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in
worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne
Lange," he added emphatically ; " I give you my word on
that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want.
You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my
honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me,
Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to
trust me with what is most precious in the world to you ;
and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able
to keep my word."

THE CHIEF 189

tt
it

What do you wish me to do ? "

Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour.
Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full
of danger — oh, no ! not for you," added Blakeney, cheek-
ing with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of pro-
testation, " danger for the others — and for our scheme to-

morrow."

" How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that
she — "

" Is under my charge ? " interposed the other calmly.
" That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added,
placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, " you shall
not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must
think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have
sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Ger-
main. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle
of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I
imagine that you have lost those which you had on the
landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule.
In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the
packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an
appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette.
You understand ? "

" Yes, yes ! " said Armand eagerly. " You want me to
join Ffoulkes and Tony."

" Yes ! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the
canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as
may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain,
and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take
his place with Ffoulkes."

" Yes, I understand ; but how will Tony reach St. Ger-
main ? "

" La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, " you may

140 ELDORADO

safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do
as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And
now," he added, speaking more earnestly, " the sooner you
get out of Paris the better it will be for us alL As you see,
I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so
far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Re-
main close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will
contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle
Lange."

Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deep-
ened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how
untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless
devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The
words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they
would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid
of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all
his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely cal-
lous in matters of the heart

But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true
sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a
creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He
could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst
giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne.

He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that
actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the
League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made
senseless schoolboy jokes like those which — in face of
their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all
ran — had horrified him so much last night.

But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not
ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brim-
ming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on
her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with

THE CHIEF 141

a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of sup-
pressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes.

So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool
and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his
friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break
his heart.

" I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in
answer to the unspoken prayer; " cannot you try and trust
me — as the others do? "

Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map be-
hind him.

" Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the
towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony
on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some
time to-night."

"God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily.
" Good-bye ! "

" Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as
quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter
of an hour."

He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and
finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his
room and walked up to the window, which he threw open
to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look
of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown,
and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter im-
patience and disappointment escaped his lips.

CHAPTER XV

THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE

And now the shades of evening had long since yielded
to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the north-
east corner of the city, was about to close. Armand,
dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was lean-
ing against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street
which abuts on the canal at its further end ; from this point
of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of
the life and bustle around it.

He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past
twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he
was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb.
As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early
morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled
about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal
which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with
a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily
exertion. During the course of the morning he had sud-
denly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord
Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and
as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire.

It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and
activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men
to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon com-
municated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony,
who effectually slipped away from his work some time dur-
ing the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all
been so neatly done.

THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE 143

Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers
were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work.
Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only
for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious,
He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body,
but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given
up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily
than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through
the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keep-
ing Jeanne.

That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's
mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy —
a marked man if ever there was one — go from prison to
prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed
preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to
such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the
more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find any-
thing out.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just
wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying
quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could
confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's
probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour ap-
proached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up
his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could
see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of
the canal intersecting the street at its further end.

Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates
would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier
would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners
with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one;
the labourers on foot were returning to their homes ;
there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also

144 ELDORADO

a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded some-
where in the neighbourhood of the canal.

In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to
discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long,
but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifica-
tions at this point.

There were a good many idlers about at this hour ; some
men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an
hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in
the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather
a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed
on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Con-
vention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's
welfare.

Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of
the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He
shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air,
and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But
his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate
whence Percy must come now at any moment — now or
not at all.

At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in
his mind the young man could not afterwards have said.
Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaim-
ing the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of
the guard.

Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he
(Armand) would have the night to face without news of
Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; per-
haps he had been unable to get definite information about
Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained
was too terrible to communicate.

If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and

THE GATE OF LA VTLLETTE 145

Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would
have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with out-
ward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack.

Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness
came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him
in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard
of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had
transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall
rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the
gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp
was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson
light.

And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast
and noisy throng : — they were all pressing round him so
that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and
tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen
such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille.
Now they were all assembled here around him and around
the guillotine.

Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear:
the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately
the crowd began to cheer and to shout ; some sang the " £a
irai " and others screamed :

" Les oristos! A la lanterne! a mart! a mart! tes aristos! "

He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had van-
ished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could
have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and pres-
ently the cart debouched on the open place.

Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the
midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon
Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white
kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair
fell in loose, soft curls all round her head. She looked ex-

146 EIJX)RADO

actly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to
wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back,
but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets.

Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and
he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision
was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had
sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these
imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only
Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being ted to the guillo-
tine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come.
Armand believed that a direct message had come to him
from heaven to save his beloved.

Therefore he forgot his promise — his oath; he forgot
those very things which the leader had entreated him to
remember — his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obe-
dience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of
a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly
danger.

Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris.
Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying
quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test
of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne.

A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain ; a hun-
dred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not
for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to
guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her,
and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue
her from threatened death.

Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock in-
side the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of
Percy.

Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly
up to the gate.

THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE 117

The guard challenged him, but he presented the certifi-
cate. There was an agonising moment when the card was
taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room
while it was being examined by the sergeant in command.

But the certificate was in good order, and Armand,
covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down
his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise.
It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one
wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was wel-
come to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought
fit to close his jaws.

Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed
to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was de-
tained. He would have to get another from the Committee
of General Security before he would be allowed to leave
Paris again.

The lion had thought fit to close his jaws.

CHAPTER XVI

THE WEARY SEARCH

Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand ar-
rived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young
man haunted the precincts of St Germain l'Auxerrois and
wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch,
until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and
realised that if he loitered longer he might lose conscious-
ness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of serv-
ice to Jeanne.

He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings
on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy,
he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could
hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense.

He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired
nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless
torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the
beneficent aid of rest.

It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light
of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes
of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of
limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy
had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where
a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to suc-
ceed.

The rough clothes which he had wom yesterday were
the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his
purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's

THE WEARY SEARCH 149

lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, look-
ing a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work.

He went to a humble eating house of which he knew,
and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk
of bread, he set himself to think.

It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and
friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison
to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to b*
detained. The prisons were overfull just now; convents,
monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisi-
tioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds
of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest
suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher.

There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erst-
while convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Cceur, the
cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St.
Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and,
lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were
brought whose trial would take place within the next few
days, and whose condemnation was practically assured.

Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did
sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was
only the ante-chamber of the guillotine.

Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie
first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne
was not in immediate danger the better would he be able
to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that
knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved.

If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might
be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained,
and through Armand's excited brain there had already
flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General
Security would release her if he gave himself up.

150 ELDORADO

These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him
mentally and physically ; he even made a great effort to eat
and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure
if it was going to be of service to Jeanne.

He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The
grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Jus-
tice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river
banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed
through the monumental gateways of the house of Jus-
tice.

He knew that his best way to the prison would be through
the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public
had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings
began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were
assembling — men and women who apparently had no other
occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of
horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending
dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful
monotony.

Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the
courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight
of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects.
There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen
amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes
attracted no attention.

Suddenly a word reached his ear — just a name flip-
pantly spoken by spiteful lips — and it changed the whole
trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he
had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and — in connection
with her — of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that
name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back
to more definite thoughts of his chief.

" Capet I " the name — intended as an insult, but actually

THE WEARY SEARCH 151

merely irrelevant — whereby the uncrowned little King of
France was designated by the revolutionary party.

Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday,
the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of
dates lately, but the name, " Capet," had brought everything
back: the child in the Temple; the conference in
Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the
boy. That was to take place to-day — Sunday, the
19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple,
at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be to-
day, and he would be watching his opportunity.

Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of
bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten
Jeanne ! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple,
and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with
anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and
impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes,
had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the un-
crowned King.

But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a
kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had for-
gotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was
better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty
and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment
did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be
readily accepted in exchange for hers.

The crowd around him was moving up the monumental
steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a
few minutes to ten now ; soon the court would begin to sit.
In the olden days, when he was studying for the law,
Armand had often wandered about at will along the cor-
ridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where
the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and

163 ELDORADO

how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their
daily exercise.

To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death
taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one
of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the
city were brought hither for entertainment Tall iron
gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row
of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterpris-
ing and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the
ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare
clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a
farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-
dimmed eyes effectually belied.

All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a
little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Fas Perdus,
and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall.
He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched
one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the
great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought
in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers,
a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken
by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened
to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves
judges of their fellows.

The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees with-
out wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested
some savings in an English industrial enterprise; -yet an-
other had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate
rather suddenly in the market !

Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus
wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest,
or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these
were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends

THE WEARY SEARCH 158

of muskets, and condemnations — wholesale sentences of
death — were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the
spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury
and judge.

Ohl the mockery of it all — the awful, the hideous
ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the
historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror,
could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous
spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting
Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrile-
gious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her
pale face and cheeks stained with her tears.

He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency
of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drift-
ing leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their
wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des
Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago
de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of
Heron.

On his left now were the arcades shut off from the court-
yard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork
Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or
sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him ex-
plaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners
who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his
heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would
be among them.

He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon
he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-
humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the
aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every
sense was concentrated in that of sight.

At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from

154 ELDORADO

another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard,
and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably.
The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty
air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-
stones.

Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were some-
what dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy
grey light and the moving figures that looked so like
shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now,
women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded
arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling
fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then
there were others who were actually chatting and laughing
together, and — oh, the pity of it ! the pity and the shame ! —
a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide
and seek in and out amongst the columns.

And, between them all, in and out like the children at
play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe
and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure.

Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not
yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly — very slowly —
a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his de-
spair.

The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him
for his intentness.

" Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen ? "
he asked. " You seem to be devouring them with your
eyes."

Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust,
his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked
to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who
formed the bulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked
up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement,

THE WEARY SEARCH 155

and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent
to a coarse jest.

" Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen ? " he said. " Is
she among that lot? "

" I do not know where she is," said Armand almost in-
voluntarily.

" Then why don't you find out? " queried the soldier.

The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand,
devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the
last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more
careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love
as he could.

" I would like to find out," he said, " but I don't know
where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her
home," he added lightly; " some say that she has been false
to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested."

" Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humour-
edly, " go straight to La Touraelle ; you know where it is? "

Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent
to keep up the air of the ignorant lout.

" Straight down that first corridor on your right," ex-
plained the other, pointing in the direction which he had
indicated, " you will find the guichet of La Tournelle ex-
actly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of
female prisoners — every freeborn citizen of the Republic
has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree
framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But
if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge,"
he added, speaking confidentially, " you will find that the
register will not be quite ready for your inspection."

" Half a livre! " exclaimed Armand, striving to play his
part to the end. " How can a poor devil of a labourer have
half a livre to give away?"

106 ELDORADO

" Well I a few sous will do in that case ; a few sous are
always welcome these hard times."

Armand took the hint, and as the crowd had drifted away
momentarily to a further portion of the corridor, he con-
trived to press a few copper coins into the hand of the obli-
ging soldier.

Of course, he knew his way to La Toumelle, and he
would have covered the distance that separated him from
the guichet there with steps flying like the wind, but, com-
mending himself for his own prudence, he walked as slowly
as he could along the interminable corridor, past the several
minor courts of justice, and skirting the courtyard where
the male prisoners took their exercise.

At last, having struck sharply to his left and ascended
a short flight of stairs, he found himself in front of the
guichet — a narrow wooden box, wherein the clerk in
charge of the prison registers sat nominally at the disposal
of the citizens of this free republic.

But to Armand's almost overwhelming chagrin he found
the place entirely deserted. The guichet was closed down ;
there was not a soul in sight The disappointment was
doubly keen, coming as it did in the wake of hope that had
refused to be gainsaid. Armand himself did not realise
how sanguine he had been until he discovered that he must
wait and wait again — wait for hours, all day mayhap, be-
fore he could get definite news of Jeanne. -

He wandered aimlessly in the vicinity of that silent, de-
serted, cruel spot, where a closed trapdoor seemed to shut
off all hts hopes of a speedy sight of Jeanne. He inquired
of the first sentinels whom he came across at what hour the
clerk of the registers would be back at his post ; the soldiers
shrugged their shoulders and could give no information.
Then began Armand's aimless wanderings round La

THE WEARY SEARCH 157

Tournelle, his fruitless inquiries, his wild, excited search
for the hide-bound official who was keeping from him the
knowledge of Jeanne.

He went back to his sentinel well-wisher by the women's
courtyard, but found neither consolation nor encourage-
ment there.

" It is not the hour — quoit " the soldier remarked with
laconic philosophy.

It apparently was not the hour when the prison registers
were placed at the disposal of the public. After much
fruitless inquiry, Armand at last was informed by a bon
bourgeois, who was wandering about the house of Justice
and who seemed to know its multifarious rules, that the
prison registers all over Paris could only be consulted by
the public between the hours of six and seven in the even-
ing.

There was nothing for it but to wait. Armand, whose
temples were throbbing, who was footsore, hungry, and
wretched, could gain nothing by continuing his aimless
wanderings through the labyrinthine building. For close
upon another hour he stood with his face glued against the
ironwork which separated him from the female prisoners'
courtyard. Once it seemed to him as if from its further
end he caught the sound of that exquisitely melodious voice
which had rung forever in his ear since that memorable
evening when Jeanne's dainty footsteps had first
crossed the path of his destiny. He strained his eyes to
look in the direction whence the voice had come, but the
centre of the courtyard was planted with a small garden
of shrubs, and Armand could not see across it. At last,
driven forth like a wandering and lost soul, he turned
back and out into the streets. The air was mild and damp.
The sharp thaw had persisted through the day, and a thin,

158 ELDORADO

misty rain was falling and converting the ill-paved roads
into seas of mud.

But of this Armand was wholly unconscious. He
walked along the quay holding his cap in his hand, so that
the mild south wind should cool his burning forehead.

How he contrived to kill those long, weary hours he
could not afterwards have said. Once he felt very hungry,
and turned almost mechanically into an eating-house, and
tried to eat and drink. But most of the day he wandered
through the streets, restlessly, unceasingly, feeling neither
chill nor fatigue. The hour before six o'clock found him
on the Quai de 1'Horloge in the shadow of the great towers
of the Hall of Justice, listening for the clang of the clock
that would sound the hour of his deliverance from this
agonising torture of suspense.

He found his way to La Tournelle without any hesita-
tion. There before him was the wooden box, with its
guichet open at last, and two stands upon its ledge, on
which were placed two huge leather-bound books.

Though Armand was nearly an hour before the appointed
time, he saw when he arrived a number of people standing
round the guichet. Two soldiers were there keeping guard
and forcing the patient, long-suffering inquirers to stand in
a queue, each waiting his or her turn at the books.

It was a curious crowd that stood there, in single file,
as if waiting at the door of the cheaper part of a theatre;
men in substantial cloth clothes, and others in ragged blouse
and breeches ; there were a few women, too, with black
shawls on their shoulders and kerchiefs round their wan,
tear-stained faces.

They were all silent and absorbed, submissive under the
rough handling of the soldiery, humble and deferential when
anon the clerk of the registers entered his box, and prepared
to place those fateful books at the disposal of those who

THE WEARY SEARCH 159

had lost a loved one — father, brother, mother, or wife — '
and had come to search through those cruel pages.

From inside his box the clerk disputed every inquirer's
right to consult the books ; he made as many difficulties as
he could, demanding the production of certificates of safety,
or permits from the section. He was as insolent as he
dared, and Armand from where he stood could see that a
continuous if somewhat thin stream of coppers flowed from
the hands of the inquirers into those of the official.

It was quite dark in the passage where the long queue
continued to swell with amazing rapidity. Only on the
ledge in front of the guichet there was a guttering tallow
candle at the disposal of the inquirers.

Now it was Armand's turn at last. By this time his
heart was beating so strongly and so rapidly that he could
not have trusted himself to speak. He fumbled in his
pocket, and without unnecessary preliminaries he produced
a small piece of silver, and pushed it towards the clerk,
then he seized on the register marked " Femmes " with
voracious avidity.

The clerk had with stolid indifference pocketed the half-
livre; he looked on Armand over a pair of large bone-
rimmed spectacles, with the air of an old hawk that sees a
helpless bird and yet is too satiated to eat. He was appar-
ently vastly amused at Armand's trembling hands, and the
clumsy, aimless way with which he fingered the book and
held up the tallow candle.

" What date ? " he asked curtly in a piping voice.

"What date?" reiterated Armand vaguely.

" What day and hour was she arrested? " said the man,
thrusting his beak-like nose closer to Armand's face. Evi-
dently the piece of silver had done its work well; he meant
to be helpful to this country lout.

" On Friday evening," murmured the young man.

160 ELDORADO

The cleric's hands did not in character gainsay the rest
of his appearance ; they were long and thin, with nails that
resembled the talons of a hawk. Armaad watched them
fascinated as from above they turned over rapidly the pages
of the book ; then one long, grimy finger pointed to a row
of names down a column.

" If she is here," said the man curtly, " her name should
be amongst these."

Armand's vision was blurred. He could scarcely see.
The row of names was dancing a wild dance in front of
his eyes; perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his
breath came in quick, stertorous gasps.

He never knew afterwards whether he actually saw
Jeanne's name there in the book, or whether his fevered
brain was playing his aching senses a cruel and mocking
trick. Certain it is that suddenly amongst a row of indif-
ferent names hers suddenly stood clearly on the page, and
to him it seemed as if the letters were writ out in blood.

582. Belhomme, Louise, aged sixty. Discharged.
And just below, the other entry :

583. Lange, Jeanne, aged twenty, actress. Square du
Roule No. 5. Suspected of harbouring traitors and ci-devants.
Transferred 29th Nivose to the Temple, cell 29.

He saw nothing more, for suddenly it seemed to him as
if some one held a vivid scarlet veil in front of his eyes,
whilst a hundred claw-like hands were tearing at his heart
and at his throat.

" Clear out now ! it is my turn — what ? Are you going
to stand there all night? "

A rough voice seemed to be speaking these words ; rough
hands apparently were pushing him out of the way, and
some one snatched the candle out of his hand; but nothing
was real. He stumbled over a comer of a loose flagstone,

THE WEARY SEARCH 161

and would have fallen, but something seemed to catch hold
of him and to lead him away for a little distance, until a
breath of cold air blew upon his face.

This brought htm back to his senses.

Jeanne was a prisoner in the Temple ; then his place was
in the prison of the Temple, too. It could not be very diffi-
cult to run one's head into the noose that caught so many
necks these days. A few cries of " Vive le roil " or " A bos
la ripublique! " and more than one prison door would gape
invitingly to receive another guest.

The hot blood had rushed into Armand's head. He did
not see clearly before him, nor did he hear distinctly.
There was a buzzing in his ears as of myriads of mocking
birds' wings, and there was a veil in front of his eyes — a
veil through which he saw faces and forms flitting ghost-like
in the gloom, men and women jostling or being jostled,
soldiers, sentinels; then long, interminable corridors, more
crowd and more soldiers, winding stairs, courtyards and
gates ; finally the open street, the quay, and the river beyond.

An incessant hammering went on in his temples, and that
veil never lifted from before his eyes. Now it was lurid
and red, as if stained with blood; anon it was white like a
shroud but it was always there.

Through it he saw the Pont-au-Change, which he crossed,
then far down on the Quai de l'Rcole to the left the corner
house behind St. Germain 1'Auxerrois, where Blakeney
lodged — Blakeney, who for the sake of a stranger had
forgotten all about his comrade and Jeanne.

Through it he saw the network of streets which separated
him from the neighbourhood 01 the Temple, the gardens
of ruined habitations, the closely-shuttered and barred win-
dows of ducal houses, then the mean streets, the crowded
drinking bars, the tumble-down shops with their dilapidated
awnings.

162 ELDORADO

He saw with eyes that did not see, heard the tumult of
daily life round him with ears that did not hear. Jeanne
was in the Temple prison, and when its grim gates closed
finally for the night, he — Armand, her chevalier, her lover,
her defender — would be within its walls as near to cell
No. 29 as bribery, entreaty, promises would help him to at-
tain.

Ah! there at last loomed the great building, the pointed
bastions cut through the surrounding gloom as with a sable
knife.

Armand reached the gate; the sentinels challenged him;
he replied :

" Vive le roi! " shouting wildly like one who is drunk.

He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with mois-
ture. He tried to pass, but crossed bayonets barred the
way. Still he shouted:

" Vive le roi! " and " A bos la rSpubliquel "

" Atlons! the fellow is drunk ! " said one of the soldiers.

Armand fought like a madman ; he wanted to reach that
gate. He shouted, he laughed, and he cried, until one of
the soldiers in a fit of rage struck him heavily on the head.

Armand fell backwards, stunned by the blow; his foot
slipped on the wet pavement. Was he indeed drunk, or
was he dreaming? He put his hand up to his forehead;
it was wet, but whether with the rain or with blood he did
not know ; but for the space of one second he tried to collect
his scattered wits.

" Citizen St. Just! " said a quiet voice at his elbow.

Then, as he looked round dazed, feeling a firm, pleasant
grip on his arm, the same quiei voice continued calmly :

" Perhaps you do not remember me, citizen St. Just. I
had not the honour of the same close friendship with you
as I had with your charming sister. My name is Chauvelin.
Can I be of any service to you? "

CHAPTER XVII

CHAUVELIN

Chauvelin ! The presence of this man here at this mo-
ment made the events of the past few days seem more
absolutely like a dream. Chauvelin I — the most deadly
enemy he, Armand, and his sister Marguerite had in the
world. Chauvelin! — the evil genius that presided over
the Secret Service of the Republic. Chauvelin ! — the
aristocrat turned revolutionary, the diplomat turned spy,
the baffled enemy of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

He stood there vaguely outlined in the gloom by the
feeble rays of an oil lamp fixed into the wall just above.
The moisture on his sable clothes glistened in the flickering
light like a thin veil of crystal; it clung to the rim of his
hat, to the folds of his cloak; the ruffles at his throat and
wrist hung limp and soiled.

He had released Armand's arm, and held his hands now
underneath his cloak; his pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely
on the younger man's face.

" I had an idea, somehow," continued Chauvelin calmly,
" that you and I would meet during your sojourn in Paris.
I heard from my friend Heron that you had been in the
city; he, unfortunately, lost your track almost as soon as
he had found it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our
mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
had spirited you away, which would have been a great dis-
appointment to me."

Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow,

164 ELDORADO

but quite gently, more like a comrade who is glad to have
met another, and is preparing to enjoy a pleasant conver-
sation for a while. He led the way back to the gate, the
sentinel saluting at sight of the tricolour scarf which was
visible underneath his cloak. Under the stone rampart
Chauvelin paused.

It was quiet and private here. The group of soldiers
stood at the further end of the archway, but they were out
of hearing, and their forms were only vaguely discernible
in the surrounding darkness.

Armand had followed his enemy mechanically like one
bewitched and irresponsible for his actions. When Chau-
velin paused he too stood still, not because of the grip on
his arm, but because of that curious numbing of his will.

Vague, confused thoughts were floating through his
brain, the most dominant one among them being that Fate
had effectually ordained everything for the best. Here was
Chauvelin, a man who hated him, who, of course, would
wish to see him dead. Well, surely it must be an easier
matter now to barter his own life for that of Jeanne; she
had only been arrested on suspicion of harbouring him,
who was a known traitor to the Republic; then, with his
capture and speedy death, her supposed guilt would, he
hoped, be forgiven. These people could have no ill-will
against her, and actors and actresses were always leniently
dealt with when possible. Then surely, surely, he could
serve Jeanne best by his own arrest and condemnation, than
by working to rescue her from prison.

In the meanwhile Chauvelin shook the damp from off his
cloak, talking all the time in his own peculiar, gently ironical
manner.

"Lady Blakeney?" he was saying — "I hope that she
is well!"

CHAUVELIN 165

" I thank you, sir," murmured Armand mechanically.

"And my dear friend, Sir Percy Blakeney? I had
hoped to meet him in Paris. Ah! but no doubt he has
been busy — very busy; but I live in hopes — I live in
hopes. See how kindly Chance has treated me," he
continued in the same bland and mocking tones. " I
was taking a stroll in these parts, scarce hoping to
meet a friend, when, passing the postern-gate of this
charming hostelry, whom should I see but my amiable
friend St. Just striving to gain admission. But, lat here
am I talking of myself, and I am not re-assured as to your
state of health. You felt faint just now, did you not?
The air about this building is very dank and close. I hope
you feel better now. Command me, pray, if I can be of
service to you in any way."

Whilst Chauvelin talked he had drawn Armand after
him into the lodge of the concierge. The young man now
made a great effort to pull himself vigorously together and
to steady his nerves.

He had his wish. He was inside the Temple prison
now, not far from Jeanne, and though his enemy was
older and less vigorous than himself, and the door of the
concierge's lodge stood wide open, he knew that he was in-
deed as effectually a prisoner already as if the door of one
of the numerous cells in this gigantic building had been
bolted and barred upon him.

This knowledge helped him to recover his complete pres-
ence of mind. No thought of fighting or trying to escape
his fate entered his head for a moment. It had. been use-
less probably, and undoubtedly it was better so. If he only
could see Jeanne, and assure himself that she would be safe
in consequence of his own arrest, then, indeed, life could
hold no greater happiness for him.

-

166 ELDORADO

Above all now he wanted to be cool and calculating, to
curb the excitement which the Latin blood in him called
forth at every mention of the loved one's name. He tried
to think of Percy, of his calmness, his easy banter with an
enemy ; he resolved to act as Percy would act under these
circumstances.

Firstly, he steadied his voice, and drew his well-knit, slim
figure upright. He called to mind all his friends in Eng-
land, with their rigid manners, their impassiveness in the
face of trying situations. There was Lord Tony, for in-
stance, always ready with some boyish joke, with boyish
impertinence always hovering on his tongue. Armand tried
to emulate Lord Tony's manner, and to borrow something
of Percy's calm impudence.

" Citizen Chauvelin," he said, as soon as he felt quite sure
of the steadiness of his voice and the calmness of his man-
ner, " I wonder if you are quite certain that that light grip
which you have on my arm is sufficient to keep me here
walking quietly by your side instead of knocking you down,
as I certainly feel inclined to do, for I am a younger, more
vigorous man than you."

" H'm I " said Chauvelin, who made pretence to ponder
over this difficult problem; "like you, citizen St. Just, I
wonder — "

" It could easily be done, you know."

"Fairly easily," rejoined the other; "but there is the
guard ; it is numerous and strong in this building, and — "

"The gloom would help me; it is dark in the corridors,
and a desperate man takes risks, remember — "

"Quite so! And you, citizen St. Just, are a desperate
man just now."

" My sister Marguerite is not here, citizen Chauvelia
You cannot barter my life for that of your enemy."

CHAUVELIN 167

"No I no! no!" rejoined Chauvelin blandly; "not for
that of ray enemy, I know, but — "

Armand caught at his words like a drowning man at a
reed.

" For hers ! " he exclaimed.

" For hers? " queried the other with obvious puzzlement.

" Mademoiselle Lange," continued Armand with all the
egoistic ardour of the lover who believes that the attention
of the entire world is concentrated upon his beloved.
" Mademoiselle Lange I You will set her free now that I
am in your power."

Chauvelin smiled, his usual suave, enigmatical smile.

" Ah, yes ! " he said. " Mademoiselle Lange. I had
forgotten."

"Forgotten, man? — forgotten that those murderous
dogs have arrested her? — the best, the purest, this vile, de-
graded country has ever produced. She sheltered me one
day just for an hour. I am a traitor to the Republic — I
own it. I'll make full confession ; but she knew nothing of
this. I deceived her; she is quite innocent, you understand?
I'll make full confession, but you must set her free."

He had gradually worked himself up again to a state of
feverish excitement. Through the darkness which hung
about in this small room he tried to peer in Chauvelin's im-
passive face.

" Easy, easy, my young friend," said the other placidly ;
" you seem to imagine that I have something to do with the
arrest of the lady in whom you take so deep an interest.
You forget that now I am but a discredited servant of the
Republic whom I failed to serve in her need. My life is
only granted me out of pity for my efforts, which were gen-
uine if not successful. I have no power to set any one free."

" Nor to arrest me now, in that case I " retorted Armand.

168 ELDORADO

Chauvelin paused a moment before he replied with a dep-
recating smile :

" Only to denounce you, perhaps. I am still an agent
of the Committee of General Security."

"Then all is for the best!" exclaimed St Just eagerly.
" You shall denounce me to the Committee. They will be
glad of my arrest, I assure you. I have been a marked man
for some time. I had intended to evade arrest and to
work for the rescue of Mademoiselle Lange ; but I will give
up all thought of that — I will deliver myself into your
hands absolutely; nay, more, I will give you my most solemn
word of honour that not only will I make no attempt at es-
cape, but that I will not allow any one to help me to do so.
I will be a passive and willing prisoner if you, on the other
hand, will effect Mademoiselle Lange's release."

" H'm ! " mused Chauvelin again, " it sounds feasible."

" It does! it does! " rejoined Armand, whose excitement
was at fever-pitch, " My arrest, my condemnation, my
death, will be of vast deal more importance to you than
that of a young and innocent girl against whom unlikely
charges would have to be tricked up, and whose acquittal
mayhap public feeling might demand. As for me, I shall
be an easy prey; my known counter-revolutionary prin-
ciples, my sister's marriage with a foreigner — "

" Your connection with the Scarlet Pimpernel," sug-
gested Chauvelin blandly.

" Quite so. I should not defend myself — "

" And your enigmatical friend would not attempt your
rescue. C'est entendu," said Chauvelin with his wonted
Mandness. " Then, my dear, enthusiastic young friend,
shall we adjourn to the office of my colleague, citizen
Heron, who is chief agent of the Committee of General Se-
curity, and will receive your — did you say confession? —

CHAUVELIN 169

and note the conditions under which you place yourself ab-
solutely in the hands of the Public Prosecutor and subse-
quently of the executioner. Is that it ? "

Armand was too full of schemes, too full of thoughts of
Jeanne to note the tone of quiet irony with which Chauvelin
had been speaking all along. With the unreasoning egoism
of youth he was quite convinced that his own arrest, his
own affairs were as important to this entire nation in revolu-
tion as they were to himself. At moments like these it is
difficult to envisage a desperate situation clearly, and to a
young man in love the fate of the beloved never seems des-
perate whilst he himself is alive and ready for every sac-
rifice for her sake. " My life for hers " is the sublime if
often foolish battle-cry that has so often resulted in whole-
sale destruction. Armand at this moment, when he fondly
believed that he was making a bargain with the most astute,
most unscrupulous spy this revolutionary Government had
in its pay — Armand just then had absolutely forgotten his
chief, his friends, the league of mercy and help to which
he belonged.

Enthusiasm and the spirit of self-sacrifice were carrying
him away. He watched his enemy with glowing eyes as
one who looks on the arbiter of his fate.

Chauvelin, without another word, beckoned to htm to
follow. He led the way out of the lodge, then, turning
sharply to his left, he reached the wide quadrangle with
the covered passage running right round it, the same which
de Batz had traversed two evenings ago when he went
to visit Heron.

Armand, with a light heart and springy step, followed
him as if he were going to a feast where he would meet
Jeanne, where he would kneel at her feet, kiss her hands,
and lead her triumphantly to freedom and to happiness.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE REMOVAL

Chauveijn no longer made any pretence to hold Armand
by the arm. By temperament as well as by profession a
spy, there was one subject at least which he had mastered
thoroughly : that was the study of human nature. Though
occasionally an exceptionally complex mental organisation
baffled him — as in the case of Sir Percy Blakeney — he
prided himself, and justly, too, on reading natures like
that of Armand St Just as he would an open book.

The excitable disposition of the Latin races he knew out
and out; he knew exactly how far a sentimental situation
would lead a young Frenchman like Armand, who was by
disposition chivalrous, and by temperament essentially pas-
sionate. Above all things, he knew when and how far he
could trust a man to do either a sublime action or an essen-
tially foolish one.

Therefore he walked along contentedly now, not even
looking back to see whether St Just was following him.
He knew that he did.

His thoughts only dwelt on the young enthusiast — in his
mind he called him the young fool — in order to weigh in
the balance the mighty possibilities that would accrue from
the present sequence of events. The fixed idea ever work-
ing in the man's scheming brain had already transformed
a vague belief into a certainty. That the Scarlet Pimpernel
was in Paris at the present moment Chauvelin had now be-
come convinced. How far he could turn the capture of

THE REMOVAL 171

Armand St. Just to the triumph of his own ends remained
to be seen.

But this he did know : the Scarlet Pimpernel — the
man whom he had learned to know, to dread, and even in a
grudging manner to admire — was not like to leave one of
his followers in the lurch. Marguerite's brother in the
Temple would be the surest decoy for the elusive meddler
who still, and in spite of all care and precaution, continued
to baffle the army of spies set upon his track.

Chauvelin could hear Armand's light, elastic footsteps
resounding behind him on the flagstones. A world of in-
toxicating possibilities surged up before him. Ambition,
which two successive dire failures had atrophied in his
breast, once more rose up buoyant and hopeful. Once he
had sworn to lay the Scarlet Pimpernel by the heels, and
that oath was not yet wholly forgotten ; it had lain dormant
after the catastrophe of Boulogne, but with the sight of
Armand St. Just it had re-awakened and confronted him
again with the strength of a likely fulfilment.

The courtyard looked gloomy and deserted. The thin
drizzle which still fell from a persistently leaden sky ef-
fectually held every outline of masonry, of column, or of
gate hidden as beneath a shroud. The corridor which
skirted it all round was ill-lighted save by an occasional oil-
lamp fixed in the wall.

But Chauvelin knew his way well. Heron's lodgings
gave on the second courtyard, the Square du Nazaret, and
the way thither led past the main square tower, in the top
floor of which the uncrowned King of France eked out his
miserable existence as the plaything of a rough cobbler and
his wife.

Just beneath its frowning bastions Chauvelin turned back

17* ELDORADO

towards Armand. He pointed with a careless hand up-
wards to the central tower.

" We have got little Capet in there," he said dryly.
" Your chivalrous Scarlet Pimpernel has not ventured in
these precincts yet, you see."

Armand was silent He had no difficulty in looking un-
concerned; his thoughts were so full of Jeanne that he
cared but little at this moment for any Bourbon king or for
the destinies of France.

Now the two men reached the postern gate. A couple
of sentinels were standing by, but the gate itself was open,
and from within there came the sound of bustle and of
noise, of a good deal of swearing, and also of loud laughter.

The guard-room gave on the left of the gate, and the
laughter came from there. It was brilliantly lighted, and
Armand, peering in, in the wake of Chauvelin, could see
groups of soldiers sitting and standing about. There was
a table in the centre of the room, and on it a number of
jugs and pewter mugs, packets of cards, and overturned
boxes of dice.

But the bustle did not come from the guard-room; it
came from the landing and the stone stairs beyond.

Chauvelin, apparently curious, had passed through the
gate, and Armand followed him. The light from the open
door of the guard-room cut sharply across the landing,
making the gloom beyond appear more dense and almost
solid. From out the darkness, fitfully intersected by a
lanthorn apparently carried to and fro, moving figures
loomed out ghost-like and weirdly gigantic. Soon Armand
distinguished a number of large objects that encumbered
the landing, and as he and Chauvelin left the sharp light
of the guard-room behind them, he could see that the
large objects were pieces of furniture of every shape and

THE REMOVAL 178

size; a wooden bedstead — dismantled — leaned against the
wall, a black horsehair sofa blocked the way to the tower
stairs, and there were numberless chairs and several tables
piled one on the top of the other.

In the midst of this litter a stout, flabby-cheeked man
stood, apparently giving directions as to its removal to per-
sons at present unseen.

" Hold, Papa Simon ! " exclaimed Chauvelin jovially ;
" moving out to-day? What ? "

" Yes, thank the Lord ! — if there be a Lord I " retorted
the other curtly. " Is that you, citizen Chauvelin? "

" In person, citizen. I did not know you were leaving
quite so soon. Is citizen Heron anywhere about?"

" Just left," replied Simon. " He had a last look at
Capet just before my wife locked the brat up in the inner
room. Now he's gone back to his lodgings."

A man carrying a chest, empty of its drawers, on his
back now came stumbling down the tower staircase.
Madame Simon followed close on his heels, steadying the
chest with one hand.

" We had better begin to load up the cart," she called to
her husband in a high-pitched querulous voice ; " the corri-
dor is getting too much encumbered."

She looked suspiciously at Chauvelin and at Armand,
and when she encountered the former's bland, unconcerned
gaze she suddenly shivered and drew her black shawl closer
round her shoulders.

" Bah I " she said, " I shall be glad to get out of this God-
forsaken hole. I hate the very sight of these walls."

" Indeed, the citizeness does not look over robust in
health," said Chauvelin with studied politeness. " The stay
in the tower did not, mayhap, bring forth all the fruits of
prosperity which she had anticipated."

174 ELDORADO

The woman eyed him with dark suspicion lurking in her
hollow eyes.

" I don't know what you mean, citizen," she said with a
shrug of her wide shoulders.

"Oh! I meant nothing," rejoined Chauvelin, smiling.
" I am so interested in your removal ; busy man as I am,
it has amused me to watch you. Whom have you got to
help you with the furniture ? "

" Dupont, the man-of-all-work, from the concierge," said
Simon curtly. " Citizen Heron would not allow any one to
come in from the outside."

" Rightly too. Have the new commissaries come yet? "

" Only citizen Cochefer. He is waiting upstairs for the
others."

"And Capet?"

" He is all safe. Citizen Heron came to see him, and
then he told me to lock the little vermin up in the inner room.
Citizen Cochefer had just arrived by that time, and he has
remained in charge."

During all this while the man with the chest on his back
was waiting for orders. Bent nearly double, he was grum-
bling audibly at his uncomfortable position.

" Does the citizen want to break my back? " he muttered.
" We had best get along — qvai? "

He asked if he should begin to carry the furniture out
into the street.

" Two sous have I got to pay every ten minutes to the
lad who holds my nag," he said, muttering under his
breath ; " we shall be all night at this rate."

" Begin to load then," commanded Simon gruffly.
" Here ! — begin with this sofa."

'* You'll have to give me a hand with that," said the man.

THE REMOVAL 178

" Wait a bit; I'll just see that everything is all right in the
cart. I'll be back directly."

" Take something with you then as you are going down,"
said Madame Simon in her querulous voice.

The man picked up a basket of linen that stood in the
angle by the door. He hoisted it on his back and shuffled
away with it across the landing and out through the gate.

" How did Capet like parting from his papa and
maman?" asked Chauvelin with a laugh.

" H'm 1 " growled Simon laconically. " He will find out
soon enough how well off he was under our care."

" Have the other commissaries come yet ? "

" No. But they will be here directly. Citizen Cochefer
is upstairs mounting guard over Capet"

" Well, good-bye, Papa Simon," concluded Chauvelin
jovially. " Citizeness, your servant ! "

He bowed with unconcealed irony to the cobbler's wife,
and nodded to Simon, who expressed by a volley of motley
oaths his exact feelings with regard to all the agents of the
Committee of General Security.

" Six months of this penal servitude have we had," he
said roughly, " and no thanks or pension. I would as soon
serve a ci-devant aristo as your accursed Committee."

The man Dupont had returned. Stolidly, after the fash-
ion of his kind, he commenced the removal of citizen
Simon's goods. He seemed a clumsy enough creature, and
Simon and his wife had to do most of the work themselves.

Chauvelin watched the moving forms for a while, then
he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh of indifference,
and turned on his heel.

CHAPTER XIX

IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN

Heron was not at his lodgings when, at last, after
vigorous pulls at the bell, a great deal of waiting and much
cursing, Chauvelin, closely followed by Armand, was intro-
duced in the chief agent's office.

The soldier who acted as servant said that citizen Heron
had gone out to sup, but would surely be home again by
eight o'clock. Armand by this time was so dazed with
fatigue that he sank on a chair like a log, and remained
there staring into the fire, unconscious of the flight of time.

Anon Heron came home. He nodded to Chauvelin, and
threw but a cursory glance on Armand,

" Five minutes, citizen," he said, with a rough attempt
at an apology. " I am sorry to keep you waiting, but the
new commissaries have arrived who are to take charge of
Capet. The Simons have just gone, and I want to assure
myself that everything is all right in the Tower. Cochefer
has been in charge, but I like to cast an eye over the brat
every day myself."

He went out again, slamming the door behind him. His
heavy footsteps were heard treading the flagstones of the
corridor, and gradually dying away in the distance.
Armand had paid no heed either to his entrance or to his
exit. He was only conscious of an intense weariness, and
would at this moment gladly have laid his head on the scaf-
fold if on it he could find rest.

A white-faced clock on the wall ticked off the seconds one

IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN ITT

by one. From the street below came the muffled sounds
of wheeled traffic on the soft mud of the road ; it was rain-
ing more heavily now, and from time to time a gust of
wind rattled the small windows in their dilapidated frames,
or hurled a shower of heavy drops against the panes.

The heat from the stove had made Armand drowsy ; his
head fell forward on his chest. Chauvelin, with his hands
held behind his back, paced ceaselessly up and down the
narrow room.

Suddenly Armand started — wide awake now. Hur-
ried footsteps on the flagstones outside, a hoarse shout, a
banging of heavy doors, and the next moment Heron
stood once more on the threshold of the room. Armand,
with wide-opened eyes, gazed on him in wonder. The
whole appearance of the man had changed. He looked
ten years older, with lank, dishevelled hair hanging matted
over a moist forehead, the cheeks ashen-white, the full lips
bloodless and hanging, flabby and parted, displaying both
rows of yellow teeth that shook against each other. The
whole figure looked bowed, as if shrunk within itself.

Chauvelin had paused in his restless walk. He gazed
on his colleague, a frown of puzzlement on his pale, set
face.

" Capet! " he exclaimed, as soon as he had taken in every
detail of Heron's altered appearance, and seen the look of
wild terror that literally distorted his face.

Heron could not speak; his teeth were chattering in his
mouth, and his tongue seemed paralysed. Chauvelin went
up to him. He was several inches shorter than his col-
league, but at this moment he seemed to be towering over
him like an avenging spirit. He placed a firm hand on the
other's bowed shoulders.

" Capet has gone — is that it? " he queried peremptorily.

178 ELDORADO

The look of terror increased in Heron's eyes, giving its
mute reply.

" How ? When ? "

But for the moment the man was speechless. An al-
most maniacal fear seemed to hold him in its grip. With
an impatient oath Chauvelin turned away from him.

" Brandy ! " he said curtly, speaking to Armand.

A bottle and glass were found in the cupboard. It was
St. Just who poured out the brandy and held it to Heron's
lips. Chauvelin was once more pacing up and down the
room in angry impatience.

" Pull yourself together, man," he said roughly after a
while, " and try and tell me what has occurred."

Heron had sunk into a chair. He passed a trembling
hand once or twice over his forehead.

" Capet has disappeared," he murmured ; " he must have
been spirited away while the Simons were moving their
furniture. That accursed Cochefer was completely taken
in."

Heron spoke in a toneless voice, hardly above a whisper,
and like one whose throat is dry and mouth parched. But
the brandy had revived him somewhat, and his eyes lost
their former glassy look.

" How ? " asked Chauvelin curtly.

" I was just leaving the Tower when he arrived. I
spoke to him at the door. I had seen Capet safely installed
in the room, and gave orders to the woman Simon to let
citizen Cochefer have a look at him, too, and then to lock
up the brat in the inner room and install Cochefer in the
antechamber on guard. I stood talking to Cochefer for a
few moments in the antechamber. The woman Simon and
the man-of-all-work, Dupont — whom I know well — were
busy with the furniture. There could not have been any

IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN 179

one else concealed about the place — that I'll swear.
Cochefer, after he took leave of me, went straight into
the room; he found the woman Simon in the act of turn-
ing the key in the door of the inner chamber. I have
locked Capet in there,' she said, giving the key to Cochefer;
1 he will be quite safe until to-night ; when the other com-
missaries come.' "

" Didn't Cochefer go into the room and ascertain whether
the woman was lying?"

" Yes, he did 1 He made the woman re-open the door
and peeped in over her shoulder. She said the child was
asleep. He vows that he saw the child lying fully dressed
on a rug in the further corner of the room. The room,
of course, was quite empty of furniture and only
lighted by one candle, but there was the rug and the child
asleep on it. Cochefer swears he saw him, and now —
when I went up — "

"Well?"

"The commissaries were all there — Cochefer and Las-
niere, Lorinet and Legrand. We went into the inner
room, and I had a candle in my hand. We saw the child
lying on the rug, just as Cochefer had seen him, and for a
while we took no notice of it. Then some one — I think it
was Lorinet — went to have a closer look at the brat. He
took up the candle and went up to the rug. Then he gave a
cry, and we all gathered round him. The sleeping child
was only a bundle of hair and of clothes, a dummy —
what?"

There was silence now in the narrow room, while the
white- faced clock continued to tick off each succeeding sec-
ond of time. Heron had once more buried his head in his
hands; a trembling — like an attack of ague — shook his
wide, bony shoulders. Armand had listened to the nar-

180 ELDORADO

rative with glowing eyes and a beating heart. The de-
tails which the two Terrorists here could not probably un-
derstand he had already added to the picture which his
mind had conjured up.

He was back in thought now in the small lodging in the
rear of St. Germain l'Auxerrois; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was
there, and my Lord Tony and Hastings, and a man was
striding up and down the room, looking out into the great
space beyond the river with the eyes of a seer, and a firm
voice said abruptly:

" It is about the Dauphin ! "

" Have you any suspicions ? " asked Chauvelin now, paus-
ing in his walk beside Heron, and once more placing a firm,
peremptory hand on his colleague's shoulder.

"Suspicions!" exclaimed the chief agent with a loud
oath. " Suspicions 1 Certainties, you mean. The man
sat here but two days ago, in that very chair, and bragged
of what he would do. I told him then that if he interfered
with Capet I would wring his neck with my own hands."

And his long, talon-like fingers, with their sharp, grimy
nails, closed and unclosed like those of feline creatures
when they hold the coveted prey.

" Of whom do you speak? " queried Chauvelin curtly.

" Of whom? Of whom but that accursed de Batz? His
pockets are bulging with Austrian money, with which, no
doubt, he has bribed the Simons and Cochefer and the sen-
tinels — "

" And Lorinet and Lasniere and you," interposed Chau-
velin dryly.

" It is false ! " roared Heron, who already at the sug-
gestion was foaming at the mouth, and had jumped up
from his chair, standing at bay as if prepared to fight for
his life.

IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN 181

" False, is it? " retorted Chauvelin calmly; " then be not
so quick, friend Heron, in slashing out with senseless de-
nunciations right and left. You'll gain nothing by de-
nouncing any one just now. This is too intricate a matter
to be dealt with a sledge-hammer. Is any one up in the
Tower at this moment?" he asked in quiet, business-like
tones.

"Yes. Cochefer and the others are still there. They
are making wild schemes to cover their treachery. Coche-
fer is aware of his own danger, and Lasniere and
the others know that they arrived at the Tower several
hours too late. They are all at fault, and they know it.
As for that de Batz," he continued with a voice rendered
raucous with bitter passion, " I swore to him two days ago
that he should not escape me if he meddled with Capet.
I'm on his track already. I'll have him before the hour
of midnight, and I'll torture him — yes! I'll torture him
— the Tribunal shall give me leave. We have a dark cell
down below here where my men know how to apply tor-
tures worse than the rack — where they know just how to
prolong life long enough to make it unendurable. I'll tor-
ture him 1 I'll torture him ! "

But Chauvelin abruptly silenced the wretch with a curt
command; then, without another word, he walked straight
out of the room.

In thought Armand followed him. The wild desire was
suddenly born in him to run away at this moment, while
Heron, wrapped in his own meditations, was paying no
heed to him. Chauvelin's footsteps had long ago died away
in the distance ; it was a long way to the upper floor of the
Tower, and some time would be spent, too, in interrogating
the commissaries. This was Armand's opportunity.
After all, if he were free himself he might more effec-

182 ELDORADO

tually help to rescue Jeanne. He knew, too, now where to
join his leader. The corner of the street by the canal,
where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes would be waiting with the coal-
cart ; then there was the spinney on the road to St. Germain.
Armand hoped that, with good luck, he might yet overtake
his comrades, tell them of Jeanne's plight, and entreat them
to work for her rescue.

He had forgotten that now he had no certificate of safety,
that undoubtedly he would be stopped at the gates at this
hour of the night; that his conduct proving suspect he
would in all probability be detained, and, mayhap, be
brought back to this self-same place within an hour. He
had forgotten all that, for the primeval instinct for free-
dom had suddenly been aroused. He rose softly from his
chair and crossed the room. Heron paid no attention to
him. Now he had traversed the antechamber and un-
latched the outer door.

Immediately a couple of bayonets were crossed in front
of him, two more further on ahead scintillated feebly in the
flickering light. Chauvelin had taken his precautions.
There was no doubt that Armand St. Just was effectually a
prisoner now.

With a sigh of disappointment he went back to his place
beside the fire. Heron had not even moved whilst he had
made this futile attempt at escape. Five minutes later
Chauvelin re-entered the room.

CHAPTER XX

THE CERTIFICATE OF SAFETY

"You can leave de Batz and his gang alone, citizen
Heron," said Chauvelin, as soon as he had closed the door
behind him ; " he had nothing to do with the escape of the
Dauphin."

Heron growled out a few words of incredulity. But
Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders and looked with unutter-
able contempt on his colleague. Armand, who was watch-
ing him closely, saw that in his hand he held a small piece
of paper, which he had crushed into a shapeless mass.

" Do not waste your time, citizen," he asid, " in raging
against an empty wind-bag. Arrest de'Batz if you like, or
leave him alone an you please — we have nothing to fear
from that braggart."

With nervous, slightly shaking fingers he set to work
to smooth out the scrap of paper which he held. His hot
hands had soiled it and pounded it until it was a mere rag
and the writing on it illegible. But, such as it was, he
threw it down with a blasphemous oath on the desk in front
of Heron's eyes.

" It is that accursed Englishman who has been at work
again," he said more calmly ; " I guessed it the moment I
heard your story. Set your whole army of sleuth-hounds
on his track, citizen; you'll need them all."

Heron picked up the scrap of torn paper and tried to de-
cipher the writing on it by the light from the lamp. He
seemed almost dazed now with the awful catastrophe that

164 ELDORADO

had befallen him, and the fear that his own wretched life
would have to pay the penalty for the disappearance of the
child.

As for Armand — even in the midst of his own troubles,
and of his own anxiety for Jeanne, he felt a proud exulta-
tion in his heart The Scarlet Pimpernel had succeeded;
Percy had not failed in his self-imposed undertaking.
Chauvelin, whose piercing eyes were fixed on him at that
moment, smiled with contemptuous irony.

'* As you will find your hands overfull for the next few
hours, citizen Heron," he said, speaking to his colleague and
nodding in the direction of Armand, " I'll not trouble you
with the voluntary confession this young citizen desired to
make to you. All I need tell you is that he is an adherent
of the Scarlet Pimpernel — I believe one of his most faith-
ful, most trusted officers."

Heron roused himself from the maze of gloomy thoughts
that were again paralysing his tongue. He turned bleary,
wild eyes on Armand.

" We have got one of them, then? " he murmured inco-
herently, babbling like a drunken man.

"M'yes!" replied Chauvelin lightly; "but it is too late
now for a formal denunciation and arrest. He cannot leave
Paris anyhow, and all that your men need to do is to keep
a close look-out on him. But I should send him home
to-night if I were you."

Heron muttered something more, which, however, Ar-
mand did not understand. Chauvelin's words were still
ringing in his ear. Was he, then, to be set free to-night?
Free in a measure, of course, since spies were to be set to
watch him — but free, nevertheless? He could not under-
stand Chauvelin's attitude, and his own self-love was not a
little wounded at the thought that he was of such little ac- ,

THE CERTIFICATE OP SAFETY 185

count that these men could afford to give him even this pro-
visional freedom. And, of course, there was still Jeanne.

*' I must, therefore, bid you good-night, citizen," Chauve-
lin was saying in his bland, gently ironical manner. " You
will be glad to return to your lodgings. As you see, the
chief agent of the Committee of General Security is too
much occupied just now to accept the sacrifice of your life
which you were prepared so generously to offer him."

" I do not understand you, citizen," retorted Armand
coldly, " nor do I desire indulgence at your hands. You
have arrested an innocent woman on the trumped-up charge
that she was harbouring me. I came here to-night to give
myself up to justice so that she might be set free."

" But the hour is somewhat late, citizen," rejoined
Chauvelin urbanely. " The lady in whom you take so fer-
vent an interest is no doubt asleep in her cell at this hour.
It would not be fitting to disturb her now. She might not
find shelter before morning, and the weather is quite ex-
ceptionally unpropitious."

" Then, sir," said Armand, a little bewildered, "am I
to understand that if I hold myself at your disposition
Mademoiselle Lange will be set free as early to-morrow
morning as may be ? "

" No doubt, sir — no doubt," replied Chauvelin with more
than his accustomed blandness; "if you will hold yourself
entirely at our disposition, Mademoiselle Lange will be set
free to-morrow. I think that we can safely promise that,
citizen Heron, can we not?" he added, turning to his col-
league.

But Heron, overcome with the stress of emotions, could
only murmur vague, unintelligible words.

" Your word on that, citizen Chauvelin? " asked Armand.

" My word on it an you will accept it."

186 ELDORADO

" No, I will not do that Give me an unconditional cer-
tificate of safety and I will believe you."

"Of what use were that to you?" asked Chauvelin.

" I believe my capture to be of more importance to you
than that of Mademoiselle Lange," said Armand quietly.
" I will use the certificate of safety for myself or one of
my friends if you break your word to me anent Made-
moiselle Lange."

"H'ml the reasoning is not illogical, citizen," said
Chauvelin, whilst a curious smile played round the comers
of his thin lips. " You are quite right. You are a more
valuable asset to us than the charming lady who, I hope,
will for many a day and year to come delight pleasure-lov-
ing Paris with her talent and her grace."

" Amen to that, citizen," said Armand fervently.

" Well, it will all depend on you, sir I Here," he added,
coolly running over some papers on Heron's desk until
he found what he wanted, " is an absolutely unconditional
certificate of safety. The Committee of General Security
issue very few of these. It is worth the cost of a human
life. At no barrier or gate of any city can such a certificate
be disregarded, nor even can it be detained. Allow me
to hand it to you, citizen, as a pledge of my own good
faith."

Smiling, urbane, with a curious look that almost ex-
pressed amusement lurking in his shrewd, pale eyes,
Chauvelin handed the momentous document to Armand.

The young man studied it very carefully before he slipped
it into the inner pocket of his coat.

" How soon shall I have news of Mademoiselle Lange ? "
he asked finally.

" In the course of to-morrow. I myself will call on you
and redeem that precious document in person. You, on

THE CERTIFICATE OF SAFETY 187

the other hand, will hold yourself at my disposition. That's
understood, is it not?"

" I shall not fail you. My lodgings are — "

"Oh! do not trouble," interposed Chauvelin, with a
polite bow ; '* we can find that out for ourselves."

Heron had taken no part in this colloquy. Now that
Armand prepared to go he made no attempt to detain him,
or to question his colleague's actions. He sat by the table
like a log; his mind was obviously a blank to all else save
to his own terrors engendered by the events of this night.

With bleary, half-veiled eyes he followed Armand's
progress through the room, and seemed unaware of the loud
slamming of the outside door. Chauvelin had escorted the
young man past the first line of sentry, then he took cordial
leave of him.

" Your certificate will, you will find, open every gate to
you. Good-night, citizen. A demain."

" Good-night."

Armand's slim figure disappeared in the gloom.
Chauvelin watched him for a few moments until even his
footsteps had died away in the distance; then he turned back
towards Heron's lodgings.

"A nous deux," he muttered between tightly clenched
teeth ; " d nous deux once more, my enigmatical Scarlet
Pimpernel."

CHAPTER XXI

BACK TO PARIS

It was an exceptionally dark night, and the rain was fall-
ing in torrents. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, wrapped in a
piece of sacking, had taken shelter right underneath the
coal-cart; even then he was getting wet through to the
skin.

He had worked hard for two days coal-heaving, and the
night before he had found a cheap, squalid lodging where
at any rate he was protected from the inclemencies of the
weather; but to-night he was expecting Blakeney at the ap-
pointed hour and place. He had secured a cart of the
ordinary ramshackle pattern used for carrying coal. Un-
fortunately there were no covered ones to be obtained in
the neighbourhood, and equally unfortunately the thaw
had set in with a blustering wind and driving rain, which
made waiting in the open air for hours at a stretch and in
complete darkness excessively unpleasant.

But for all these discomforts Sir Andrew Ffoulkes cared
not one jot In England, in his magnificent Suffolk home,
he was a confirmed sybarite, in whose service every descrip-
tion of comfort and luxury had to be enrolled. Here to-
night in the rough and tattered clothes of a coal-heaver,
drenched to the skin, and crouching under the body of a
cart that hardly sheltered him from the rain, he was as
happy as a schoolboy out for a holiday.

Happy, but vaguely anxious.

He had no means of ascertaining the time. So many of

BACK TO PARIS 189

the church-bells and clock towers had been silenced recently
that not one of those welcome sounds penetrated to the
dreary desolation of this canal wharf, with its abandoned
carts standing ghostlike in a row. Darkness had set in
very early in the afternoon, and the heavers had given up
work soon after four o'clock.

For about an hour after that a certain animation had still
reigned round the wharf, men crossing and going, one or
two of the barges moving in or out alongside the quay.
But for some time now darkness and silence had been the
masters in this desolate spot, and that time had seemed to
Sir Andrew an eternity. He had hobbled and tethered his
horse, and stretched himself out at full length under the
cart. Now and again he had crawled out from under this
uncomfortable shelter and walked up and down in ankle-
deep mud, trying to restore circulation in his stiffened limbs ;
now and again a kind of torpor had come over him, and he
had fallen into a brief and restless sleep. He would at
this moment have given half his fortune for knowledge of
the exact time.

But through all this weary waiting he was never for a
moment in doubt. Unlike Armand St. Just, he had the
simplest, most perfect faith in his chief. He had been
Blakeney's constant companion in all these adventures for
close upon four years now ; the thought of failure, however
vague, never once entered his mind.

He was only anxious for his chief's welfare. He knew
that he would succeed, but he would have liked to have
spared him much of the physical fatigue and the nerve-
racking strain of these hours that lay between the daring
deed and the hope of safety. Therefore he was conscious
of an acute tingling of his nerves, which went on even dur-
ing the brief snatches of fitful sleep, and through the numb-

190 ELDORADO

ness that invaded his whole body while the hours dragged
wearily and slowly along.

Then, quite suddenly, he felt wakeful and alert ; quite a
while — even before he heard the welcome signal — he
knew, with a curious, subtle sense of magnetism, that the
hour had come, and that his chief was somewhere near by,
not very far.

Then he heard the cry — a seamew's call — repeated
thrice at intervals, and five minutes later something loomed
out of the darkness quite close to the hind wheels of the
cart.

"Hist! Ffoulkes!" came in a soft whisper, scarce
louder than the wind.

" PresentI " came in quick response.

" Here, help me to lift the child into the cart. He is
asleep, and has been a dead weight on my arm for close
on an hour now. Have you a dry bit of sacking or some-
thing to lay him on? "

" Not very dry, I am afraid."

With tender care the two men lifted the sleeping little
King of France into the rickety cart. Blakeney laid his
cloak over him, and listened for awhile to the slow regular
breathing of the child.

" St. Just is not here — you know that ? " said Sir An-
drew after a while.

" Yes, I knew it," replied Blakeney curtly.

It was characteristic of these two men that not a word
about the adventure itself, about the terrible risks and
dangers of the past few hours, was exchanged between
them. The child was here and was safe, and Blakeney
knew the whereabouts of St. Just — that was enough for
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the most devoted follower, the most
perfect friend the Scarlet Pimpernel would ever know.

BACK TO PARIS 191

Ffoulkes now went to the horse, detached the nose-bag,
and undid the nooses of the hobble and of the tether.

"Will you get in now, Blakeney?" he said; "we are
ready."

And in unbroken silence they both got into the cart;
Blakeney sitting on its floor beside the child, and Ffoulkes
gathering the reins in his hands.

The wheels of the cart and the slow jog-trot of the horse
made scarcely any noise in the mud of the roads, what
noise they did make was effectually drowned by the sough-
ing of the wind in the bare branches of the stunted aca-
cia trees that edged the towpath along the line of the
canal.

Sir Andrew had studied the topography of this desolate
neighbourhood well during the past twenty- four hours;
he knew of a detour that would enable him to avoid the La
Villette gate and the neighbourhood of the fortifications,
and yet bring him out soon on the road leading to St.
Germain.

Once he turned to ask Blakeney the time.

" It must be close on ten now," replied Sir Percy.
" Push your nag along, old man. Tony and Hastings will
be waiting for us."

It was very difficult to see clearly even a metre or two
ahead, but the road was a straight one, and the old nag
seemed to know it almost as well and better than her driver.
She shambled along at her own pace, covering the ground
very slowly for Ffoulkes's burning impatience. Once or
twice he had to get down and lead her over a rough piece
of ground. They passed several groups of dismal, squalid
houses, in some of which a dim light still burned, and as
they skirted St Ouen the church clock slowly tolled the
hour of midnight.

198 ELDORADO

But for the greater part of the way derelict, uncultivated
spaces of terrains vogues, and a few isolated houses lay be-
tween the road and the fortifications of the city. The dark-
ness of the night, the late hour, the soughing of the wind,
were all in favour of the adventurers; and a coal-cart
slowly trudging along in this neighbourhood, with two
labourers sitting in it, was the least likely of any vehicle
to attract attention.

Past Clichy, they had to cross the river by the rickety
wooden bridge that was unsafe even in broad daylight.
They were not far from their destination now. Half a
dozen kilometres further on they .would be leaving Cour-
bevoie on their left, and then the sign-post would come in
sight After that the spinney just off the road, and the
welcome presence of Tony, Hastings, and the horses.
Ffoulkes got down in order to make sure of the way. He
walked at the horse's head now, fearful lest he missed the
cross-roads and the sign-post.

The horse was getting over-tired; it had covered fifteen
kilometres, and it was close on three o'clock of Monday
morning.

Another hour went by in absolute silence. Ffoulkes and
Blakeney took turns at the horse's head. Then at last they
reached the cross-roads; even through the darkness the
sign-post showed white against the surrounding gloom.

" This looks like it," murmured Sir Andrew. He turned
the horse's head sharply towards the left, down a narrower
road, and leaving the sign-post behind him. He walked
slowly along for another quarter of an hour, then Blakeney
called a halt.

" The spinney must be sharp on our right now," he said.

He got down from the cart, and while Ffoulkes remained
beside the horse, he plunged into the gloom. A moment

BACK TO PARIS 193

later the cry of the seamew rang out three times into the
air. It was answered almost immediately.

The spinney lay on the right of the road. Soon the
soft sounds that to a trained ear invariably betray the pres-
ence of a number of horses reached Ffoulkes' straining
senses. He took his old nag out of the shafts, and the
shabby harness from off her, then he turned her out on
the piece of waste land that faced the spinney. Some one
would find her in the morning, her and the cart with the
shabby harness laid in it, and, having wondered if all these
things had perchance dropped down from heaven, would
quietly appropriate them, and mayhap thank much-
maligned heaven for its gift.

Blakeney in the meanwhile had lifted the sleeping child
out of the cart. Then he called to Sir Andrew and led
the way across the road and into the spinney.

Five minutes later Hastings received the uncrowned
King of France in his arms.

Unlike Ffoulkes, my Lord Tony wanted to hear all about
the adventure of this afternoon. A thorough sportsman,
he loved a good story of hairbreadth escapes, of dangers
cleverly avoided, risks taken and conquered.

" Just in ten words, Blakeney," he urged entreattngly ;
" how did you actually get the boy away ? "

Sir Percy laughed — despite himself — at the young
man's eagerness.

" Next time we meet, Tony," he begged ; " I am so
demmed fatigued, and there's this beastly rain — "

" No, no — now 1 while Hastings sees to the horses. I
could not exist long without knowing, and we are well
sheltered from the rain under this tree."

" Well, then, since you will have it," he began with a
laugh, which despite the weariness and anxiety of the past

194 ELDORADO

twenty-four hours had forced itself to his lips, " I have
been sweeper and man-of-all-work at the Temple for the
past few weeks, you must know — "

" No! " ejaculated my Lord Tony lustily. " By gum! "

" Indeed, you old sybarite, whilst you were enjoying
yourself heaving coal on the canal wharf, I was scrubbing
floors, lighting fires, and doing a number of odd jobs for
a lot of demmed murdering villains, and " — he added under
his breath — " incidentally, too, for our league. Whenever
I had an hour or two off duty I spent them in my lodgings,
and asked you all to come and meet me there."

" By Gad, Blakeney 1 Then the day before yesterday ? —
when we all met — "

" I had just had a bath — sorely needed, I can tell you.
I had been cleaning boots half the day, but I had heard that
the Simons were removing from the Temple on the Sun-
day, and had obtained an order from them to help them
shift their furniture."

" Cleaning boots ! " murmured my Lord Tony with a
chuckle. " Well ! and then ? "

" Well, then everything worked out splendidly. You
see by that time I was a well-known figure in the Temple.
Heron knew me well. I used to be his lanthorn-bearer
when at nights he visited that poor mite in his prison. It
was ' Dupont, here! Dupont there 1 ' all day long.
'Light the fire in the office, Dupont! Dupont, brush my
coat! Dupont, fetch me a light!' When the Simons
wanted to move their household goods they called loudly
for Dupont. I got a covered laundry cart, and I brought
a dummy with me to substitute for the child. Simon him-
self knew nothing of this, but Madame was in my pay.
The dummy was just splendid, with real hair on its head;
Madame helped me to substitute it for the child; we laid

BACK TO PARIS 195

it on the sofa and covered it over with a rug, even while
those brutes Heron and Cochefer were on the landing out-
side, and we stuffed His Majesty the King of France into
a linen basket. The room was badly lighted, and any one
would have been deceived. No one was suspicious of that
type of trickery, so it went off splendidly. I moved the
furniture of the Simons out of the Tower. His Majesty
King Louis XVII was still concealed in the linen basket.
I drove the Simons to their new lodgings — the man still
suspects nothing — and there I helped them to unload the
furniture — with the exception of the linen basket, of
course. After that I drove my laundry cart to a house I
knew of and collected a number of linen baskets, which I
had arranged should be in readiness for me. Thus loaded
up I left Paris by the Vincennes gate, and drove as far as
Bagnolet, where there is no road except past the octroi,
where the officials might have proved unpleasant. So I
lifted His Majesty out of the basket and we walked on
hand in hand in the darkness and the rain until the poor
little feet gave out. Then the little fellow — who has been
wonderfully plucky throughout, indeed, more a Capet than
a Bourbon — snuggled up in my arms and went fast asleep,
and — and — well, I think that's all, for here we are, you
see.

"But if Madame Simon had not been amenable to
bribery ?" suggested Lord Tony after a moment's silence.

" Then I should have had to think of something else."

" If during the removal of the furniture Heron had re-
mained resolutely in the room ? "

" Then, again, I should have had to think of something
else; but remember that in life there is always one .supreme
moment when Chance — who is credited to have but one
hair on her head — stands by you for a brief space of time ;

196 ELDORADO

sometimes that space is infinitesimal — one minute, a few
seconds — just the time to seize Chance by that one hair.
So I pray you all give me no credit in this or any other mat-
ter in which we all work together, but the quickness of
seizing Chance by the hair during the brief moment when
she stands by my side. If Madame Simon had been un-
amenable, if Heron had remained in the room all the time,
if Cochefer had had two looks at the dummy instead of
one — well, then, something else would have helped me,
something would have occurred; something — I know not
what — but surely something which Chance meant to be
on our side, if only we were quick enough to seize it —
and so you see how simple it all is."

So simple, in fact, that it was sublime. The daring, the
pluck, the ingenuity and, above all, the super-human heroism
and endurance which rendered the hearers of this simple
narrative, simply told, dumb with admiration.

Their thoughts now were beyond verbal expression.

" How soon was the hue and cry for the child about the
streets?" asked Tony, after a moment's silence.

" It was not out when I left the gates of Paris," said
Blakeney meditatively ; " so quietly has the news of the
escape been kept, that I am wondering what devilry that
brute Heron can be after. And now no more chattering,"
he continued lightly ; " all to horse, and you, Hastings, have
a care. The destinies of France, mayhap, will be lying
asleep in your arms."

" But you, Blakeney? " exclaimed the three men almost
simultaneously.

" I am not going with you. I entrust the child to you.
For God's sake guard him well I Ride with him to Mantes.
You should arrive there at about ten o'clock. One of you
then go straight to No. 9 Rue la Tour. Ring the bell ; an

BACK TO PARIS 197

old man will answer it Say the one word to hinij ' En-
fant '; he will reply, ' De roil ' Give him the child, and
may Heaven bless you all for the help you have given me
this night I "

" But you, Blakeney ? " reiterated Tony with a note of
deep anxiety in his fresh young voice.

" I am straight for Paris," he said quietly.

" Impossible 1"

" Therefore feasible."

"But why? Percy, in the name of Heaven, do you
realise what you are doing? "

" Perfectly."

" They'll not leave a stone unturned to find you — they
know by now, believe me, that your hand did this trick."

" I know that."

" And yet you mean to go back ? "

" And yet I am going back."

" Blakeney ! "

" It's no use, Tony. Armand is in Paris. I saw him in
the corridor of the Temple prison in the company of
Chauvelin."

" Great God ! " exclaimed Lord Hastings.

The others were silent. What was the use of arguing?
One of themselves was in danger. Armand St. Just, the
brother of Marguerite Blakeney I Was it likely that Percy
would leave him in the lurch.

"One of us will stay with you, of course?" asked Sir
Andrew after awhile.

" Yes ! I want Hastings and Tony to take the child to
Mantes, then to make all possible haste for Calais, and
there to keep in close touch with the Daydream; the skipper
will contrive to open communication. Tell him to remain
in Calais waters. I hope I may have need of him soon."

198 ELDORADO

And now to horse, both of you," he added gaily. " Has-
tings, when you are ready, I will hand up the child to you.
He will be quite safe on the pillion with a strap round him
and you."

Nothing more was said after that The orders were
given, there was nothing to do but to obey; and the un-
crowned King of France was not yet out of danger. Has-
tings and Tony led two of the horses out of the spinney ; at
the roadside they mounted, and then the little lad for whose
sake so much heroism, such selfless devotion had been ex-
pended, was hoisted up, still half asleep, on the pillion in
front of my Lord Hastings.

" Keep your arm round him," admonished Blakeney ;
" your horse looks quiet enough. But put on speed as far
as Mantes, and may Heaven guard you both I "

The two men pressed their heels to their horses' flanks,
the beasts snorted and pawed the ground anxious to start.
There were a few whispered farewells, two loyal hands
were stretched out at the last, eager to grasp the leader's
hand.

Then horses and riders disappeared in the utter dark-
ness which comes before the dawn.

Blakeney and Ffoulkes stood side by side in silence for as
long as the pawing of hoofs in the mud could reach their
ears, then Ffoulkes asked abruptly:

" What do you want me to do, Blakeney?"

" Well, for the present, my dear fellow, I want you to
take one of the three horses we have left in the spinney,
and put him into the shafts of our old friend the coal-cart;
then I am afraid that you must go back the way we came."

"Yes?"

" Continue to heave coal on the canal wharf by La Vil-
lette ; it is the best way to avoid attention. After your day's

BACK TO PARIS 199

work keep your cart and horse in readiness against my
arrival, at the same spot where you were last night. If
after having waited for me like this for three consecutive
nights you neither see nor hear anything from me, go back
to England and tell Marguerite that in giving my life for
her brqther I gave it for her I "

" Blakeney — I "

" I spoke differently to what I usually do, is that it?"
he interposed, placing his firm hand on his friend's
shoulder. " I am degenerating, Ffoulkes — that's what it
is. Pay no heed to it. I suppose that carrying that sleep-
ing child in my arms last night softened some nerves in
my body. I was so infinitely sorry for the poor mite, and
vaguely wondered if I had not saved it from one misery
only to plunge it in another. There was such a fateful
look on that wan little face, as if destiny had already writ
its veto there against happiness. It came on me then how
futile were our actions, if God chooses to interpose His will
between us and our desires."

Almost as he left off speaking the rain ceased to patter
down against the puddles in the road. Overhead the clouds
flew by at terrific speed, driven along by the blustering
wind. It was less dark now, and Sir Andrew, peering
through the gloom, could see his leader's face. It was
singularly pale and hard, and the deep-set lazy eyes had
in them just that fateful look which he himself had spoken
of just now.

" You are anxious about Armand, Percy? " asked
Ffoulkes softly.

" Yes. He should have trusted me, as I had trusted
him. He missed me at the Villette gate on Friday, and
without a thought left me — left us all in the lurch; he
threw himself into the lion's jaws, thinking that he could

200 ELDORADO

help the girl he loved I knew that I could save her. She
is in comparative safety even now. The old woman,
Madame Belhomme, had been freely released the day after
her arrest, but Jeanne Lange is still in the house in the Rue
de Charonne. You know it, Ffoulkes. I got her there
early this morning. It was easy for me, of course : ' Hold,
Dupont ! my boots, Dupont ! ' ' One moment, citizen, my
daughter — ' 'Curse thy daughter, bring me my boots!"
and Jeanne Lange walked out of the Temple prison her
hand in that of that lout Dupont."

" But Armand does not know that she is in the Rue de
Charonne ? "

" No. I have not seen him since that early morning on
Saturday when he came to tell me that she had been ar-
rested. Having sworn that he would obey me, he went to
meet you and Tony at La Villette, but returned to Paris a
few hours later, and drew the undivided attention of all the
committees on Jeanne Lange by his senseless, foolish in-
quiries. But for his action throughout the whole of yes-
terday I could have smuggled Jeanne out of Paris, got her
to join you at Villette, or Hastings in St. Germain. But
the barriers were being closely watched for her, and I had
the Dauphin to think of. She is in comparative safety ; the
people in the Rue de Charonne are friendly for the mo-
ment; but for how long? Who knows? I must look after
her of course. And Armand! Poor old Armand! The
lion's jaws have snapped over him, and they hold him tight
Chauvelin and his gang are using him as a decoy to trap
me, of course. All that had not happened if Armand had
trusted me."

He sighed a quick sigh of impatience, almost of regret.
Ffoulkes was the one man who could guess the bitter dis-
appointment that this had meant. Percy had longed to be

BACK TO PARIS 801

back in England soon, back to Marguerite, to a few days of
unalloyed happiness and a few days of peace.

Now Armand's actions had retarded all that ; they were
a deliberate bar to the future as it had been mapped out
by a man who foresaw everything, who was prepared for
every eventuality.

In this case, too, he had been prepared, but not for the
want of trust which had brought on disobedience akin to
disloyalty. That absolutely unforeseen eventuality had
changed Blakeney's usual irresponsible gaiety into a con-
sciousness of the inevitable, of the inexorable decrees of
Fate.

With an anxious sigh, Sir Andrew turned away from
his chief and went back to the spinney to select for his own
purpose one of the three horses which Hastings and Tony
had unavoidably left behind.

" And you, Blakeney — how will you go back to that
awful Paris ? " he said, when he had made his choice and
was once more back beside Percy.

" I don't know yet," replied Blakeney, " but it would not
be safe to ride. I'll reach one of the gates on this side of
the city and contrive to slip in somehow. I have a certif-
icate of safety in my pocket in case I need it.

" We'll leave the horses here," he said presently, whilst
he was helping Sir Andrew to put the horse in the shafts
of the coal-cart ; " they cannot come to much harm. Some
poor devil might steal them, in order to escape from those
vile brutes in the city. If so, God speed him, say I. I'll
compensate my friend the fanner of St Germain for their
loss at an early opportunity. And now, good-bye, my dear
fellow! Some time to-night, if possible, you shall hear
direct news of me — if not, then to-morrow or the day
- after that. Good-bye, and Heaven guard you! "

tot

ELDORADO

" God guard you, Blakeney ! " said Sir Andrew fervently.

He jumped into the cart and gathered up the reins.
His heart was heavy as lead, and a strange mist had
gathered in his eyes, blurring the last dim vision which
he had of his chief standing all alone in the gloom, his
broad, magnificent figure looking almost weirdly erect and
defiant, his head thrown back, and his kind, lazy eyes watch-
ing the final departure of his most faithful comrade and
friend.

CHAPTER XXII

OF THAT THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION

Blakeney had more than one pted-A-terre in Paris, and
never stayed longer than two or three days in any of these.
It was not difficult for a single man, be he labourer or
bourgeois, to obtain a night's lodging, even in these most
troublous times, and in any quarter of Paris, provided the
rent — out of all proportion to the comfort and accommo-
dation given — was paid ungrudgingly and in advance.

Emigration and, above all, the enormous death-roll of
the past eighteen months, had emptied the apartment houses
of the great city, and those who had rooms to let were only
too glad of a lodger, always providing they were not in
danger of being worried by the committees of their sec-
tion.

The laws framed by these same committees now de-
manded that all keepers of lodging or apartment houses
should within twenty-four hours give notice at the bureau
of their individual sections of the advent of new lodgers,
together with a description of the personal appearance of
such lodgers, and an indication of their presumed civil
status and occupation. But there was a margin of twenty-
four hours, which could on pressure be extended to forty-
eight, and, therefore, any one could obtain shelter for forty-
eight hours, and have no questions asked, provided he or
she was willing to pay the exorbitant sum usually asked
under the circumstances.

204 ELDORADO

Thus Blakeney had no difficulty in securing what lodg-
ings he wanted when he once more found himself inside
Paris at somewhere about noon of that same Monday.

The thought of Hastings and Tony speeding on towards
Mantes with the royal child safely held in Hastings' arms
had kept his spirits buoyant and caused him for a while
to forget the terrible peril in which Annand St Just's
thoughtless egoism had placed them both.

Blakeney was a man of abnormal physique and iron
nerve, else he could never have endured the fatigues of the
past twenty- four hours, from the moment when on the Sun-
day afternoon he began to play his part of furniture-re-
mover at the Temple, to that when at last on Monday at
noon he succeeded in persuading the sergeant at the
Maillot gate that he was an honest stonemason residing
at Neuilly, who was come to Paris in search of work.

After that matters became more simple. Terribly foot-
sore, though he would never have admitted it, hungry and
weary, he turned into an unpretentious eating-house and
ordered some dinner. The place when he entered was
occupied mostly by labourers and workmen, dressed very
much as he was himself, and quite as grimy as he had be-
come after having driven about for hours in a laundry-
cart and in a coal-cart, and having walked twelve kilometres,
some of which he had covered whilst carrying a sleeping
child in his arms.

Thus, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., the friend and com-
panion of the Prince of Wales, the most fastidious fop the
salons of London and Bath had ever seen, was in no way
distinguishable outwardly from the tattered, half-starved,
dirty, and out-at-elbows products of this fraternising and
equalising Republic.

He was so hungry that the ill-cooked, badly-served meal

THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION 205

tempted him to eat; and he ate on in silence, seemingly
more interested in boiled beef than in the conversation that
went on around him. But he would not have been the
keen and daring adventurer that he was if he did not all
the while keep his ears open for any fragment of news that
the desultory talk of his fellow-diners was likely to yield
to him.

Politics were, of course, discussed; the tyranny of the
sections, the slavery that this free Republic had brought
on its citizens. The names of the chief personages of the
day were all mentioned in turns: Focquier-Tinville, San-
terre, Danton, Robespierre. Heron and his sleuth-hounds
were spoken of with execrations quickly suppressed, but
of little Capet not one word.

Blakeney could not help but infer that Chauvelin, Heron
and the commissaries in charge were keeping the escape of
the child a secret for as long as they could.

He could hear nothing of Armand's fate, of course.
The arrest — if arrest there had been — was not like to be
bruited abroad just now. Blakeney having last seen
Armand in Chauvelin's company, whilst he himself was
moving the Simons' furniture, could not for a moment
doubt that the young man was imprisoned, — unless, in-
deed, he was being allowed a certain measure of freedom,
whilst his every step was being spied on, so that he might
act as a decoy for his chief.

At thought of that all weariness seemed to vanish from
Blakeney's powerful frame. He set his lips firmly together,
and once again the light of irresponsible gaiety danced in
his eyes. ,

He had been in as tight a corner as this before now;
at Boulogne his beautiful Marguerite had been used as a
decoy, and twenty-four hours later he had held her in his

206 ELDORADO

arms on board his yacht the Daydream. As he would have
put it in his own forcible language :

" Those d— — d murderers have not got me yet"

The battle mayhap would this time be against greater
odds than before, but Blakeney had no fear that they would
prove overwhelming.

There was in life but one odd that was overwhelming,
and that was treachery.

But of that there could be no question.

In the afternoon Blakeney started off in search of lodg-
ings for the night. He found what would suit him in the
Rue de 1' Arcade, which was equally far from the House of
Justice as it was from his former lodgings. Here he would
be safe for at least twenty-four hours, after which he might
have to shift again. But for the moment the landlord of
the miserable apartment was over-willing to make no fuss
and ask no questions, for the sake of the money which this
aristo in disguise dispensed with a lavish hand.

Having taken possession of his new quarters and snatched
a few hours of sound, well-deserved rest, until the time
when the shades of evening and the darkness of the streets
would make progress through the city somewhat more
safe, Blakeney sallied forth at about six o'clock having a
threefold object in view.

Primarily, of course, the threefold object was con-
centrated on Armand. There was the possibility of finding
out at the young man's lodgings in Montmartre what had
become of him; then there were the usual inquiries that
could be made from the registers of the various prisons;
and, thirdly, there was the chance that Armand had suc-
ceeded in sending some kind of message to Blakeney's for-
mer lodgings in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois.

On the whole, Sir Percy decided to leave the prison regis-

THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION 207

ters alone for the present. If Armand had been actually
arrested, he would almost certainly be confined in the
Chatelet prison, where he would be closer to hand for all
the interrogatories to which, no doubt, he would be sub-
jected.

Blakeney set his teeth and murmured a good, sound,
British oath when he thought of those interrogatories.
Armand St. Just, highly strung, a dreamer and a bundle of
nerves — how he would suffer under the mental rack of
questions and cross-questions, cleverly-laid traps to catch
information from him unawares!

His next objective, then, was Armand's former lodging,
and from six o'clock until close upon eight Sir Percy
haunted the slopes ?f Montmartre, and more especially the
neighbourhood of the Rue de la Croix Blanche, where
Armand had lodged these former days. At the house itself
he could not inquire as yet; obviously it would not have
been safe; to-morrow, perhaps, when he knew more, but
not to-night. His keen eyes had already spied at least two
figures clothed in the rags of out-of-work labourers like
himself, who had hung with suspicious persistence in this
same neighbourhood, and who during the two hours that he
had been in observation had never strayed out of sight of
the house in the Rue de la Croix Blanche.

That these were two spies on the watch was, of course,
obvious; but whether they were on the watch for St. Just
or for some other unfortunate wretch it was at this stage
impossible to conjecture.

Then, as from the Tour des Dames close by the clock
solemnly struck the hour of eight, and Blakeney prepared
to wend his way back to another part of the city, he sud-
denly saw Armand walking slowly up the street.

The young man did not look either to right or left ; he

808 ELDORADO

held his head forward on his chest, and his hands were hid-
den underneath his cloak. When he passed immediately
under one of the street lamps Blakeney caught sight of his
face ; it was pale and drawn. Then he turned his head, and
for the space of two seconds his eyes across the narrow
street encountered those of his chief. He had the presence
of mind not to nuke a sign or to utter a sound; he was
obviously being followed, but in that brief moment Sir
Percy had seen in the young man's eyes a look that re-
minded him of a hunted creature.

" What have those brutes been up to with him, I won-
der?" he muttered between clenched teeth.

Armand soon disappeared under the doorway of the
same house where he had been lodging all along. Even
as he did so Blakeney saw the two spies gather together
like a pair of slimy lizards, and whisper excitedly one to
another. A third man, who obviously had been dogging
Armand's footsteps, came up and joined them after a while.

Blakeney could have sworn loudly and lustily, had it
been possible to do so without attracting attention. The
whole of Armand's history in the past twenty-four hours
was perfectly clear to him. The young man had been made
free that he might prove a decoy for more important game.

His every step was being watched, and he still thought
Jeanne Lange in immediate danger of death. The look of
despair in his face proclaimed these two facts, and
Blakeney's heart ached for the mental torture which his
friend was enduring. He longed to let Armand know that
the woman he loved was in comparative safety.

Jeanne Lange first, and then Armand himself; and the
odds would be very heavy against the Scarlet Pimpernel!
But that Marguerite should not have to mourn an only
brother, of that Sir Percy made oath.

THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION 809

He now turned his steps towards his own former lodg-
ings by St. Germain l'Auxerrois. It was just possible that
Armand had succeeded in leaving a message there for him.
It was, of course, equally possible that when he did so
Heron's men had watched his movements, and that spies
would be stationed there, too, on the watch.

But that risk must, of course, be run. Blakeney's for-
mer lodging was the one place that Armand would know
of to which he could send a message to his chief, if he
wanted to do so. Of course, the unfortunate young man
could not have known until just now that Percy would come
back to Paris, but he might guess it, or wish it, or only
vaguely hope for it ; he might want to send a message, he
might long to communicate with his brother-in-law, and,
perhaps, feel sure that the latter would not leave him in the
lurch.

With that thought in his mind, Sir Percy was not likely
to give up the attempt to ascertain for himself whether
Armand had tried to communicate with him or not As
for spies — well, he had dodged some of them often enough
in his time — the risks that he ran to-night were no worse
than the ones to which he had so successfully run counter
in the Temple yesterday.

Still keeping up the slouchy gait peculiar to the out-at-
elbows working man of the day, hugging the houses as he
walked along the streets, Blakeney made slow progress
across the city. But at last he reached the facade of St.
Germain l'Auxerrois, and turning sharply to his right he
soon came in sight of the house which he had only quitted
twenty-four hours ago.

We all know that house — all of us who are familiar
with the Paris of those terrible days. It stands — quite
detached — a vast quadrangle, facing the Quai de l'Ecole

210 ELDORADO

and the river, backing on the Rue St. Germain I'Auxerrois,
and shouldering the Carrefour des Trois Maries. The
Porte-cochire, so-called, is but a narrow doorway, and is
actually situated in the Rue St. Germain I'Auxerrois.

Blakeney made his way cautiously right round the house;
he peered up and down the quay, and his keen eyes tried
to pierce the dense gloom that hung at the corners of the
Pont Neuf immediately opposite. Soon he assured himself
that for the present, at any rate, the house was not being
watched.

Armand presumably had not yet left a message for him
here; but he might do so at any time now that he
knew that his chief was in Paris and on the look-out for
him.

Blakeney made up his mind to keep this house in sight.
This art of watching he had acquired to a masterly extent,
and could have taught Heron's watch-dogs a remarkable
lesson in it. At night, of course, it was a comparatively easy
task. There were a good many unlighted doorways along
the quay, whilst a street lamp was fixed on a bracket in
the wall of the very house which he kept in observation.

Finding temporary shelter under various doorways, or
against the dank walls of the houses, Blakeney set himself
resolutely to a few hours' weary waiting. A thin, drizzly
rain fell with unpleasant persistence, like a damp mist, and
the thin blouse which he wore soon became wet through and
clung hard and chilly to his shoulders.

It was close on midnight when at last he thought it best
to give up his watch and to go back to his lodgings for a
few hours' sleep; but at seven o'clock the next morning he
was back again at his post.

The porte-cochkre of his former lodging-house was not
yet open ; he took up his stand close beside it. His woollen

THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION 211

cap pulled well over his forehead, the grime cleverly plas-
tered on his hair and face, his lower jaw thrust forward,
his eyes looking lifeless and bleary, all gave htm an expres-
sion of sly villainy, whilst the short clay pipe struck at a
sharp angle in his mouth, his hands thrust into the pockets
of his ragged breeches, and his bare feet in the mud of the
road, gave the final touch to his representation of an
out-of-work, ill-conditioned, and supremely discontented
loafer.

He had not very long to wait. Soon the porte-cochire
of the house was opened, and the concierge came out with
his broom, making a show of cleaning the pavement in
front of the door. Five minutes later a lad, whose clothes
consisted entirely of rags, and whose feet and head were
bare, came rapidly up the street from the quay, and walked
along looking at the houses as he went, as if trying to de-
cipher their number. The cold grey dawn was just break-
ing, dreary and damp, as all the past days had been.
Blakeney watched the lad as he approached, the small,
naked feet falling noiselessly on the cobblestones of the
road. When the boy was quite close to him and to the
house, Blakeney shifted his position and took the pipe out
of his mouth.

" Up early, my son ! " he said gruffly.

" Yes," said the pale-faced little creature; " I have a mes-
sage to deliver at No. 9 Rue St. Germain 1'Auxerrois. It
must be somewhere near here."

" It is. You can give me the message."

" Oh, no, citizen ! " said the lad, into whose pale, circled
eyes a look of terror had quickly appeared. " It is for one
of the lodgers in No. 9. I must give it to him."

With an instinct which he somehow felt could not err at
this moment, Blakeney knew that the message was one from

Sl« ELDORADO

Armand to himself; a written message, too, since — instinc-
tively when he spoke — the boy clutched at his thin shirt, as
if trying to guard something precious that had been en-
trusted to him.

" I will deliver the message myself, sonny," said Blakeney
gruffly. " I know the citizen for whom it is intended. He
would not like the concierge to see it."

" Oh ! I would not give it to the concierge," said the boy.
" I would take it upstairs myself."

" My son," retorted Blakeney, " let me tell you this. You
are going to give that message up to me and I will put five
whole livres into your hand."

Blakeney, with all his sympathy aroused for this poor pale-
faced lad, put on the airs of a ruffianly bully. He did not
wish fhat message to be taken indoors by the lad, for the
concierge might get hold of it, despite the boy's protests and
tears, and after that Blakeney would perforce have to dis-
close himself before it would be given up to him. During
the past week the concierge had been very amenable to
bribery. Whatever suspicions he had had about his
lodger he had kept to himself for the sake of the money
which he received ; but it was impossible to gauge any man's
trend of thought these days from one hour to the next.
Something — for aught Blakeney knew — might have oc-
curred in the past twenty-four hours to change an amiable
and accommodating lodging-house keeper into a surly or
dangerous spy.

Fortunately, the concierge had once more gone within';
there was no one abroad, and if there were, no one prob-
ably would take any notice of a burly ruffian brow-beating
a child.

" Allons!" he said gruffly, "give me the letter, or that
five livres goes back into my pocket."

THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION 218

" Five livres I " exclaimed the child with pathetic eager-
ness. " Oh, citizen ! "

The thin little hand fumbled under the rags, but it reap-
peared again empty, whilst a faint blush spread over the
hollow cheeks.

" The other citizen also gave me five livres," he said
humbly. " He lodges in the house where my mother is con-
cierge. It is in the Rue de la Croix Blanche. He has been
very kind to my mother. I would rather do as he bade me."

" Bless the lad," murmured Blakeney under his breath ;
"his loyalty redeems many a crime of this God-forsaken
city. Now I suppose I shall have to bully him, after all."

He took his hand out of his breeches pocket; between
two very dirty 6ngers he held a piece of gold. The other
hand he placed quite roughly on the lad's chest

" Give me the letter," he said harshly, " or — "

He pulled at the ragged blouse, and a scrap of soiled
paper soon fell into his hand. The lad began to cry.

" Here," said Blakeney, thrusting the piece of gold into
the thin small palm, " take this home to your mother, and
tell your lodger that a big, rough man took the letter away
from you by force. Now run, before I kick you out of
the way."

The lad, terrified out of his poor wits, did not wait for
further commands; he took to his heels and ran, his small
hand clutching the piece of gold. Soon he had disappeared
round the corner of the street.

Blakeney did not at once read the paper; he thrust it
quickly into his breeches pocket and slouched away slowly
down the street, and thence across the Place du Carrousel,
in the direction of his new lodgings in the Rue de l'Arcade.

It was only when he found himself alone in the narrow,
squalid room which he was occupying that he took the

scrap of paper from his pocket and read it slowly through.
It said:

Percy, you cannot forgive me, nor can I ever forgive my-
self, but if you only knew what I have suffered for the past
two days you would, I think, try and forgive. I am free and
yet a prisoner; my every footstep is dogged. What they
ultimately mean to do with me I do not know. And when I
think of Jeanne I long for the power to end mine own miser-
able existence. Percy I she is still in the hands of those fiends.
... I saw the prison register; her name written there has
been like a burning brand on my heart ever since. She was
still in prison the day that you left Paris; to-morrow, to-night
mayhap, they will try her, condemn her, torture her, and I
dare not go to see you, for I would only be bringing spies to
your door. But will you come to me, Percy? It should be
safe in the hours of the night, and the concierge is devoted
to me. To-night at ten o'clock she will leave the porte-
cochere unlatched. If you find it so, and if on the ledge of
the window immediately on your left as you enter you find a
candle alight, and beside it a scrap of paper with your initials
S. P. traced on it, then it will be quite safe for you to come
up to my room. It is on the second landing — a door on your
right — that too I will leave on the latch. But in the name
of the woman you love best in all the world come at once to
me then, and bear in mind, Percy, that the woman I love is
threatened with immediate death, and that I am powerless to
save her. Indeed, believe me, I would gladly die even now
but for the thought of Jeanne, whom I should be leaving in
the hands of those fiends. For God's sake, Percy, remember
that Jeanne is all the world to me.

" Poor old Armand," murmured Blakeney with a
kindly smile directed at the absent friend, " he won't trust
me even now. He won't trust his Jeanne in my hands.
Well," he added after a while, " after all, I would not
entrust Marguerite to anybody else either."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE OVERWHELMING ODDS

At half-past ten that same evening, Blakeney, still clad
in a workman's tattered clothes, his feet bare so that he
could tread the streets unheard, turned into the Rue de la
Croix Blanche.

The porte-cochere of the house where Armand lodged
had been left on the latch ; not a soul was in sight. Peering
cautiously round, he slipped into the house. On the
ledge of the window, immediately on his left when
he entered, a candle was left burning, and beside it
there was a scrap of paper with the initials S. P.
roughly traced in pencil. No one challenged him as he
noiselessly glided past it, and up the narrow stairs that
led to the upper floor. Here, too, on the second landing
the door on the right had been left on the latch. He pushed
it open and entered.

As is usual even in the meanest lodgings in Paris houses,
a small antechamber gave between the front door and the
main room. When Percy entered the antechamber was
unlighted, but the door into the inner room beyond was
ajar. Blakeney approached it with noiseless tread, and
gently pushed it open.

That very instant he knew that the game was up; he
heard the footsteps closing up behind him, saw Armand,
deathly pale, leaning against the wall in the room in front
of him, and Chauvelin and Heron standing guard over him.

The next moment the room and the antechamber were

915

CIS ELDORADO

literally alive with soldiers — twenty of them to arrest one
nun.

It was characteristic of that man that when bands were
laid on him from every side he threw back bis head and
laughed — laughed mirthfully, light-heartedly, and the first
words that escaped his lips were:

"Well, lam d d!"

" The odds are against you. Sir Percy," said Chauvelin
to him in English, whilst Heron at the further end of the
room was growling like a contented beast.

" By the Lord, sir," said Percy with perfect sang-froid,
" I do believe that for the moment they are."

" Have done, my men — have done ! " he added, turning
good-humouredly to the soldiers round him. " I never
fight against overwhelming odds. Twenty to one, eh? I
could lay four of you out easily enough, perhaps even sue,
but what then?"

But a kind of savage lust seemed to have rendered these
men temporarily mad, and they were being egged on by
Heron. The mysterious Englishman, about whom so
many eerie tales were told! Well, he had supernatural
powers, and twenty to one might be nothing to him if the
devil was on his side. Therefore a blow on his forearm
with the butt-end of a bayonet was useful for disabling
his right hand, and soon the left arm with a dislocated
shoulder hung limp by his side. Then he was bound with
cords.

The vein of luck had given out. The gambler had
staked more than usual and had lost ; but he knew how to
lose, just as he had always known how to win.

" Those d d brutes are trussing me like a fowl," he

murmured with irrepressible gaiety at the last

Then the wrench on his bruised arms as they were pulled

THE OVERWHELMING ODDS

217

roughly back by the cords caused the veil of unconscious-
ness to gather over his eyes.

" And Jeanne was safe, Armand," he shouted with a
last desperate effort ; " those devils have lied to you . . .
and tricked you into this . . . Since yesterday she is out
of prison ... in the house . . . you know . . ."

After that he lost consciousness.

And this occurred on Tuesday, January 2ist, in the year
1794, or, in accordance with the new calendar, on the 2nd
Pluviose, year II of the Republic.

It is chronicled in the Moniteur of the 3rd Pluviose that,
" on the previous evening, at half-past ten of the clock, the
Englishman known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, who for three
years has conspired against the safety of the Republic, was
arrested through the patriotic exertions of citizen Chau-
velin, and conveyed to the Conciergerie, where he now lies
— sick, but closely guarded. Long live the Republic 1 "

PART II
CHAPTER XXIV

THE NEWS

The grey January day was falling, drowsy, and dull
into the arms of night.

Marguerite, sitting in the dusk beside the fire in her small
boudoir, shivered a little as she drew her scarf closer round
her shoulders.

Edwards, the butler, entered with the lamp. The room
looked peculiarly cheery now, with the delicate white
panelling of the wall glowing under the soft kiss of the
flickering firelight and the steadier glow of the rose-shaded
lamp.

" Has the courier not arrived yet, Edwards ? " asked
Marguerite, fixing the impassive face of the well-drilled
servant with her large purple-rimmed eyes.

" Not yet, m'lady," he replied placidly.

" It is his day, is it not? "

" Yes, m'lady. And the forenoon is his time. But there
have been heavy rains, and the roads must be rare muddy.
He must have been delayed, m'lady."

" Yes, I suppose so," she said listlessly. " That will do,
Edwards. No, don't close the shutters. Ill ring pres-
ently."

The man went out of the room as automatically as he
had come. He closed the door behind him, and Marguerite
was once more alone.

THE NEWS S19

She picked up the book which she had fingered idly be-
fore the light gave out. She tried once more to fix her
attention on this tale of love and adventure written by Mr.
Fielding; but she had lost the thread of the story, and
there was a mist between her eyes and the printed pages.

With an impatient gesture she threw down the book and
passed her hand across her eyes, then seemed astonished
to find that her hand was wet.

She rose and went to the window. The air outside had
been singularly mild all day; the thaw was persisting, and
a south wind came across the Channel — from France.

Marguerite threw open the casement and sat down on
the wide sill, leaning her head against the window-frame,
and gazing out into the fast gathering gloom. From far
away, at the foot of the gently sloping lawns, the river
murmured softly in the night; in the borders to the right
and left a few snowdrops still showed like tiny white specks
through the surrounding darkness. Winter had begun the
process of slowly shedding its mantle, coquetting with
Spring, who still lingered in the land of Infinity. Gradu-
ally the shadows drew closer and closer; the reeds and
rushes on the river bank were the first to sink into their
embrace, then the big cedars on the lawn, majestic and de-
fiant, but yielding still unconquered to the power of night.

The tiny stars of snowdrop blossoms vanished one by
one, and at last the cool, grey ribbon of the river surface
was wrapped under the mantle of evening.

Only the south wind lingered on, soughing gently in
the drowsy reeds, whispering among the branches of the
cedars, and gently stirring the tender corollas of the sleep-
ing snowdrops.

Marguerite seemed to open out her lungs to its breath.
It had come all the way from France, and on its wings had

230 ELDORADO

brought something of Percy — a murmur as if he had
spoken — a memory that was as intangible as a dream.

She shivered again, though of a truth it was not cold.
The courier's delay had completely unsettled her nerves.
Twice a week he came especially from Dover, and always
he brought some message, some token which Percy had con-
trived to send from Paris. They were like tiny scraps of
dry bread thrown to a starving woman, but they did just
help to keep her heart alive — that poor, aching, disap-
pointed heart that so longed for enduring happiness which
it could never get.

The man whom she loved with all her soul, her mind
and her body, did not belong to her; he belonged to suffer-
ing humanity over there in terror-stricken France, where
the cries of the innocent, the persecuted, the wretched called
louder to him than she in her love could do.

He had been away three months now, during which time
her starving heart had fed on its memories, and the happi-
ness of a brief visit from him six weeks ago, when — quite
unexpectedly — he had appeared before her . . . home be-
tween two desperate adventures that had given life and free-
dom to a number of innocent people, and nearly cost him
his — and she had lain in his arms in a swoon of perfect
happiness.

But he had gone away again as suddenly as he had come,
and for six weeks now she had lived partly in anticipation
of the courier with messages from him, and partly on the
fitful joy engendered by these messages. To-day she had
not even that, and the disappointment seemed just now
more than she could bear.

She felt unaccountably restless, and could she but have
analysed her feelings — had she dared so to do — she
would have realised that the weight which oppressed her

THE NEWS Ml

heart so that she could hardly breathe, was one of vague
yet dark foreboding.

She closed the window and returned to her seat by the
fire, taking up her book with the strong resolution not to
allow her nerves to get the better of her. But it was diffi-
cult to pin one's attention down to the adventures of Master
Tom Jones when one's mind was fully engrossed with
those of Sir Percy Blakeney.

The sound of carriage wheels on the gravelled forecourt
in the front of the house suddenly awakened her drowsy
senses. She threw down the book, and with trembling
hands clutched the arms of her chair, straining her ears to
listen. A carriage at this hour — and on this damp win-
ter's evening! She racked her mind wondering who it
could be. '

Lady Ffoulkes was in London, she knew. Sir Andrew,
of course, was in Paris. His Royal Highness, ever a faith-
ful visitor, would surely not venture out to Richmond in
this inclement weather — and the courier always came on
horseback.

There was a murmur of voices; that of Edwards, me-
chanical and placid, could be heard quite distinctly say-
ing:

" I'm sure that her ladyship will be at home for you,
m'lady. But I'll go and ascertain."

Marguerite ran to the door and with joyful eagerness
tore it open.

" Suzanne ! " she called — ■" my little Suzanne ! I
thought you were in London. Come up quickly 1 In the
boudoir — yes. Oh I what good fortune hath brought
you?"

Suzanne flew into her arms, holding the friend whom
she loved so well close and closer to her heart, trying to

222 ELDORADO

hide her face, which was wet with tears, in the folds of
Marguerite's kerchief.

" Come inside, my darling," said Marguerite. " Why,
how cold your little hands are! "

She was on the point of turning back to her boudoir,
drawing Lady Ffoulkes by the hand, when suddenly she
caught sight of Sir Andrew, who stood at a little distance
from her, at the top of the stairs.

" Sir Andrew ! " she exclaimed with unstinted gladness.

Then she paused. The cry of welcome died on her lips,
leaving them dry and parted. She suddenly felt as if some
fearful talons had gripped her heart and were tearing at
■t with sharp, long nails ; the blood flew from her cheeks
and from her limbs, leaving her with a sense of icy numb-
ness.

She backed into the room, still holding Suzanne's hand,
and drawing her in with her. Sir Andrew followed them,
then closed the door behind him. At last the word escaped
Marguerite's parched lips :

" Percy! Something has happened to him I He is
dead?"

" No, no ! " exclaimed Sir Andrew quickly.

Suzanne put her loving arms round her friend and drew
her down into the chair by the fire. She knelt at her feet
on the hearthrug, and pressed her own burning lips on
Marguerite's icy-cold hands. Sir Andrew stood silently
by, a world of loving friendship, of heart-broken sorrow,
in his eyes.

There was silence in the pretty white-panelled room for
a while. Marguerite sat with her eyes closed, bringing the
whole armoury of her will power to bear her up outwardly
now.

" Tell me ! " she said at last, and her voice was toneless

THE NEWS 223

and dull, like one that came from the depths of a grave —
" tell me — exactly — everything. Don't be afraid. I
can bear it. Don't be afraid."

Sir Andrew remained standing, with bowed head and
one hand resting on the table. In a firm, clear voice he
told her the events of the past few days as they were known
to him. All that he tried to hide was Armand's disobedi-
ence, which, in his heart, he felt was the primary cause of
the catastrophe. He told of the rescue of the Dauphin
from the Temple, the midnight drive in the coal-cart, the
meeting with Hastings and Tony in the spinney. He only
gave vague explanations of Armand's stay in Paris which
caused Percy to go back to the city, even at the moment
when his most daring plan had been so successfully carried
through.

" Armand, I understand, has fallen in love with a beau-
tiful woman in Paris, Lady Blakeney," he said, seeing that
a strange, puzzled look had appeared in Marguerite's pale
face. " She was arrested the day before the rescue of the
Dauphin from the Temple. Armand could not join us.
He felt that he could not leave her. I am sure that you will
understand."

Then as she made no comment, he resumed his narrative :

" I had been ordered to go back to La Villette, and there
to resume my duties as a labourer in the day-time, and to
wait for Percy during the night. The fact that I had re-
ceived no message from him for two days had made me
somewhat worried, but I have such faith in him, such be-
lief in his good luck and his ingenuity, that I would not
allow myself to be really anxious. Then on the third day
I heard the news."

" What news ? " asked Marguerite mechanically.

" That the Englishman who was known as the Scarlet

224 ELDORADO

Pimpernel had been captured in a house in the Rue de la
Croix Blanche, and had been imprisoned in the Concier-
gerie."

" The Rue de la Croix Blanche? Where is that? "

"In the Montmartre quarter. Armand lodged there.
Percy, I imagine, was working to get him away; and those
brutes captured him."

" Having heard the news. Sir Andrew, what did you
do?"

" I went into Paris and ascertained its truth."

"And there is no doubt of it?"

"Alas, nonet I went to the house in the Rue de la
Croix Blanche. Armand had disappeared. I succeeded
in inducing the concierge to talk. She seems to have been
devoted to her lodger. Amidst tears she told me some of
the details of the capture. Can you bear to hear them,
Lady Blakeney?"

" Yes — tell me everything — don't be afraid," she reiter-
ated with the same dull monotony.

" It appears that early on the Tuesday morning the son
of the concierge — ■ a lad about fifteen — was sent off by
her lodger with a message to No. 9 Rue St Germain
l'Auxerrois. That was the house where Percy was staying
all last week, where he kept disguises and so on for us all,
and where some of our meetings were held. Percy evi-
dently expected that Armand would try and communicate
with him at that address, for when the lad arrived in front
of the house he was accosted — so he says — by a big,
rough workman, who browbeat him into giving up the
lodger's letter, and finally pressed a piece of gold into his
hand. The workman was Blakeney, of course. I imagine
that Armand, at the time that he wrote the letter, must
have been under the belief that Mademoiselle Lange was

THE NEWS 22fi

still in prison; he could not know then that Blakeney had
already got her into comparative safety. In the letter he
must have spoken of the terrible plight in which he stood,
and also of his fears for the woman whom he loved. Percy
was not the man to leave a comrade in the lurch 1 He
would not be the man whom we all love and admire, whose
word we all obey, for whose sake we would gladly all of
us give our life — he would not be that man if he did not
brave even certain dangers in order to be of help to those
who call on him. Armand called and Percy went to him.
He must have known that Armand was being spied upon,
for Armand, alasl was already a marked man, and the
watch-dogs of those infernal committees were already on
his heels. Whether these sleuth-hounds had followed the
son of the concierge and seen him give the letter to the
workman in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, or whether
the concierge in the Rue de la Croix Blanche was nothing
but a spy of Heron's, or, again whether the Committee of
General Security kept a company of soldiers in constant
alert in that house, we shall, of course, never know. All
that I do know is that Percy entered that fatal house at
half-past ten, and that a quarter of an hour later the con-
cierge saw some of the soldiers descending the stairs,
carrying a heavy burden. She peeped out of her lodge,
and by the light in the corridor she saw that the heavy
burden was the body of a man bound closely with ropes:
his eyes were closed, his clothes were stained with blood.
He was seemingly unconscious. The next day the official
organ of the Government proclaimed the capture of the
Scarlet Pimpernel, and there was a public holiday in hon-
our of the event."

Marguerite had listened to this terrible narrative dry-
eyed and silent Now she still sat there, hardly conscious

«S6 ELDORADO

of what went on around her — of Suzanne's tears, that fell
unceasingly upon her fingers — of Sir Andrew, who had
sunk into a chair, and buried his head in his hands. She
was hardly conscious that she lived; the universe seemed
to have stood still before this awful, monstrous cata-
clysm.

But, nevertheless, she was the first to return to the active
realities of the present.

" Sir Andrew," she said after a while, " tell me, where
are my Lords Tony and Hastings? "

" At Calais, madam," he replied. " I saw them there
on my way hither. They had delivered the Dauphin safely
into the hands of his adherents at Mantes, and were await-
ing Blakeney's further orders, as he had commanded them
to do."

"Will they wait for us there, think you?"

"For us, Lady Blakeney?" he exclaimed in puzzle-
ment.

" Yes, for us, Sir Andrew," she replied, whilst the ghost
of a smile flitted across her drawn face; " you had thought
of accompanying me to Paris, had you not? "

" But Lady Blakeney — "

" Ah ! I know what you would say, Sir Andrew. You
will speak of dangers, of risks, of death, mayhap ; you will
tell me that I as a woman can do nothing to help my hus-
band — that I could be but a hindrance to him, just as I
was in Boulogne. But everything is so different now.
Whilst those brutes planned his capture he was clever
enough to outwit them, but now they have actually got
him, think you they'll let him escape? They'll watch him
night and day, my friend, just as they watched the unfor-
tunate Queen ; but they'll not keep him months, weeks, or;
even days in prison — even Chauvelin now will no longer at-

THE NEWS 227

tempt to play with the Scarlet Pimpernel. They have him,
and they will hold him until such time as they take him to
the guillotine."

Her voice broke in a sob; her self-control was threaten-
ing to leave her. She was but a woman, young and pas-
sionately in love with the man who was about to die an
ignominious death, far away from his country, his kindred,
his friends.

" I cannot let him die alone, Sir Andrew ; he will be
longing for me, and — and, after all, there is you, and
my Lord Tony, and Lord Hastings and the others ; surely
— surely we are not going to let him die, not like that,
and not alone."

** You are right, Lady , Blakeney," said Sir Andrew
earnestly ; " we are not going to let him die, if human
agency can do aught to save him. Already Tony, Has-
tings and I have agreed to return to Paris. There are
one or two hidden places in and around the city known only
to Percy and to the members of the League where he must
find one or more of us if he succeeds in getting away. All
the way between Paris and Calais we have places of refuge,
places where any of us can hide at a given moment; where
we can find disguises when we want them, or horses in an
emergency. No I no I we are not going to despair, Lady
Blakeney; there are nineteen of us prepared to lay down
our lives for the Scarlet Pimpernel. Already I, as his
lieutenant, have been selected as the leader of as determined
a gang as has ever entered on a work of rescue before. We
leave for Paris to-morrow, and if human pluck and devotion
can destroy mountains then we'll destroy them. Our
watchword is : ' God save the Scarlet Pimpernel.' "

He knelt beside her chair and kissed the cold fingers
which, with a sad little smile, she held out to him.

J

•

888 ELDORADO

" And God bless you all ! " she murmured.

Suzanne had risen to her feet when her husband knelt;
now he stood up beside her. The dainty young woman
— hardly more than a child — was doing her best to restrain
her tears.

" See how selfish I am," said Marguerite. " I talk
calmly of taking your husband from you, when I myself
know the bitterness of such partings."

" My husband will go where his duty calls him," said
Suzanne with charming and simple dignity. " I love him
with all my heart, because he is brave and good. He could
not leave his comrade, who is also his chief, in the lurch.
God will protect him, I know. I would not ask him to
play the part of a coward."

Her brown eyes glowed with pride. She was the true
wife of a soldier, and with all her dainty ways and child-
like manners she was a splendid woman and a staunch
friend. Sir Percy Blakeney had saved her entire family
from death, the Comte and Comtesse de Tournai, the
Vicomte, her brother, and she herself all owed their lives
to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

This she was not like to forget

" There is but little danger for us, I fear me," said Sir
Andrew lightly ; " the revolutionary Government only
wants to strike at a head, it cares nothing for the limbs.
Perhaps it feels that without our leader we are enemies not
worthy of persecution. If there are any dangers, so much
the better," he added; "but I don't anticipate any, unless
we succeed in freeing our chief ; and having freed him, we
fear nothing more."

" The same applies to me, Sir Andrew," rejoined Mar-
guerite earnestly. " Now that they have captured Percy,
those human fiends will care naught for me. If you sue-

THE NEWS 1829

ceed in freeing Percy I, like you, will have nothing more
to fear, and if you fail — "

She paused and put her small, white hand on Sir An-
drew's arm.

" Take me with you, Sir Andrew," she entreated ; " do
not condemn me to the awful torture of weary watting,
day after day, wondering, guessing, never daring to hope,
lest hope deferred be more hard to bear than dreary hope-
lessness."

Then as Sir Andrew, very undecided, yet half inclined
to yield, stood silent and irresolute, she pressed her point,
gently but firmly insistent.

" I would not be in the way, Sir Andrew; I would know
how to efface myself so as not to interfere with your plans.
But, oh!" she added, while a quivering note of passion
trembled in her voice, " can't you see that I must breathe
the air that he breathes else I shall stifle or mayhap go
mad?"

Sir Andrew turned to his wife, a mute query in his eyes.

" You would do an inhuman and a cruel act," said
Suzanne with seriousness that sat quaintly on her baby
face, " if you did not afford your protection to Marguerite,
for I do believe that if you did not take her with you
to-morrow she would go to Paris alone."

Marguerite thanked her friend with her eyes. Suzanne
was a child in nature, but she had a woman's heart. She
loved her husband, and, therefore, knew and understood
what Marguerite must be suffering now.

Sir Andrew no longer could resist the unfortunate
woman's earnest pleading. Frankly, he thought that if
she remained in England while Percy was in such deadly
peril she ran the grave risk of losing her reason before the
terrible strain of suspense. He knew her to be a woman

830

ELDORADO

of courage, and one capable of great physical endurance ;
and really he was quite honest when he said that he did
not believe there would be much danger for the headless
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel unless they succeeded in
freeing their chief. And if they did succeed, then indeed
there would be nothing to fear, for the brave and loving
wife who, like every true woman does, and has done in like
circumstances since the beginning of time, was only de-
manding with passionate insistence the right to share the
fate, good or ill, of the man whom she loved.

CHAPTER XXV

PARIS ONCE MORE

Sir Andrew had just come in. He was trying to get
a little warmth into his half-frozen limbs, for the cold
had set in again, and this time with renewed vigour, and
Marguerite was pouring out a cup of hot coffee which she
had been brewing for him. She had not asked for news.
She knew that he had none to give her, else he had not
worn that wearied, despondent look in his kind face.

" I'll just try one more place this evening," he said as
soon as he had swallowed some of the hot coffee — " a
restaurant in the Rue de la Harpe; the members of the
Cordeliers' Club often go there for supper, and they are
usually well informed. I might glean something definite
there."

" It seems very strange that they are so slow in bring-
ing him to trial," said Marguerite in that dull, toneless
voice which had become habitual to her. " When you first
brought me the awful news that ... I made sure that
they would bring him to trial at once, and was in terror
lest we arrived here too late to — to see him."

She checked herself quickly, bravely trying to still the
quiver of her voice.

"And of Armand?" she asked.

He shook his head sadly.

" With regard to him I am at a still greater loss," he
said, "I cannot find his name on any of the prison

*

tSZ ELDORADO

registers, and I know that he is not in the Conciergerie.
They have cleared out all the prisoners from there; there
is only Percy — "

"Poor Armand!" she sighed; "it must be almost worse
for him than for any of us; it was his first act of thought-
less disobedience that brought all this misery upon our
heads."

She spoke sadly but quietly. Sir Andrew noted that
there was no bitterness in her tone. But her very quietude
was heart-breaking; there was such an infinity of despair
in the calm of her eyes.

" Well ! though we cannot understand it all. Lady
Blakeney," he said with forced cheerfulness, " we must
remember one thing — that whilst there is life there is
hope."

" Hope ! " she exclaimed with a world of pathos in her
sigh, her large eyes dry and circled, fixed with indescrib-
able sorrow on her friend's face.

Ffoulkes turned his head away, pretending to busy him-
self with the coffee-making utensils. He could not bear
to see that look of hopelessness in her face, for in his
heart he could not find the wherewithal to cheer her. De-
spair was beginning to seize on him too, and this he would
not let her see.

They had been in Paris three days now, and it was six
days since Blakeney had been arrested. Sir Andrew and
Marguerite had found temporary lodgings inside Paris,
Tony and Hastings were just outside the gates, and all
along the route between Paris and Calais, at St Germain,
at Mantes, in the villages between Beauvais and Amiens,
wherever money could obtain friendly help, members of
the devoted League of the Scarlet Pimpernel lay in hiding,
waiting to aid their chief.

PARIS ONCE MORE 289

Ffoulkes had ascertained that Percy was kept a close
prisoner in the Conciergerie, in the very rooms occupied
by Marie Antoinette during the last months of her life.
He left poor Marguerite to guess how closely that elusive
Scarlet Pimpernel was being guarded, the precautions sur-
rounding him being even more minute than those which
had made the unfortunate Queen's closing days a martyr-
dom for her.

But of Armand he could glean no satisfactory news,
only the negative probability that he was not detained in
any of the larger prisons of Paris, as no register which
he, Ffoulkes, so laboriously consulted bore record of the
name of St. Just.

Haunting the restaurants and drinking booths where the
most advanced Jacobins and Terrorists were wont to meet,
he had learned one or two details of Blakeney's incarcera-
tion which he could not possibly impart to Marguerite.
The capture of the mysterious Englishman known as the
Scarlet Pimpernel had created a great deal of popular
satisfaction ; but it was obvious that not only was the
public mind not allowed to associate that capture with the
escape of little Capet from the Temple, but it soon became
clear to Ffoulkes that the news of that escape was still
being kept a profound secret

On one occasion he had succeeded in spying on the Chief
Agent of the Committee of General Security, whom he
knew by sight, while the latter was sitting at dinner in
the company of a stout, florid man with pock-marked face
and podgy hands covered with rings.

Sir Andrew marvelled who this man might be. Heron
spoke to him in ambiguous phrases that would have been
unintelligible to any one who did not know the circum-
stances of the Dauphin's escape and the part that the League

284 ELDORADO

of the Scarlet Pimpernel had played in it But to Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, who — cleverly disguised as a farrier,
grimy after his day's work — was straining his ears to
listen whilst apparently consuming huge slabs of boiled
beef, it soon became clear that the chief agent and his fat
friend were talking of the Dauphin and of Blakeney.

" He won't hold out much longer, citizen," the chief
agent was saying in a confident voice ; " our men are ab-
solutely unremitting in their task. Two of them watch
him night and day; they look after him well, and prac-
tically never lose sight of him, but the moment he tries
to get any sleep one of them rushes into the cell with a
loud banging of bayonet and sabre, and noisy tread on the
flagstones, and shouts at the top of his voice: ' Now then,
aristo, where's the brat? Tell us now, and you shall lie
down and go to sleep.' I have done it myself all through
one day just for the pleasure of it. It's a little tiring for
you to have to shout a good deal now, and sometimes give
the cursed Englishman a good shake-up. He has had five
days of it, and not one wink of sleep during that time —
not one single minute of rest — and he only gets enough
food to keep him alive. I tell you he can't last. Citizen
Chauvelin had a splendid idea there. It will all come
right in a day or two."

" H'm! " grunted the other sulkily; " those Englishmen
are tough."

" Yes ! " retorted Heron with a grim laugh and a leer
of savagery that made his gaunt face look positively hid-
eous — " you would have given out after three days, friend
de Batz, would you not? And I warned you, didn't I?
I told you if you tampered with the brat I would make
you cry in mercy to me for death."

" And I warned you," said the other imperturbably, " not

PARIS ONCE MORE 285

to worry so much about me, but to keep your eyes open
for those cursed Englishmen."

" I am keeping my eyes open for you, nevertheless, my
friend. If I thought you knew where the vermin's spawn
was at this moment I would — "

" You would put me on the same rack that you or your
precious friend, Chauvelin, have devised for the English-
man. But I don't know where the lad is. If I did I would
not be in Paris."

"I know that," assented Heron with a sneer; "you
would soon be after the reward — over in Austria, what?
— but I have your movements tracked day and night, my
friend. I dare say you are as anxious -as we are as to the
whereabouts of the child. Had he been taken over the
frontier you would have been the first to hear of it, eh?
No," he added confidently, and as if anxious to reassure
himself; "my firm belief is that the original idea of these
confounded Englishmen was to try and get the child over
to England, and that they alone know where he is. I tell
you it won't be many days before that very withered Scar-
let Pimpernel will order his followers to give little Capet
up to us. Oh 1 they are hanging about Paris some of them,
I know that; citizen Chauvelin is convinced that the wife
isn't very far away. Give her a sight of her husband now,
say I, and she'll make the others give the child up soon
enough."

The man laughed like some hyena gloating over its
prey. Sir Andrew nearly betrayed himself then. He
had to dig his nails into his own flesh to prevent himself
from springing then and there at the throat of that wretch
whose monstrous ingenuity had invented torture for the
fallen enemy far worse than any that the cruelties of
mediaeval Inquisitions had devised.

2&6 ELDORADO

So they would not let him sleep! A simple idea bom
in the brain of a fiend. Heron had spoken of Chauvelin
as the originator of the devilry; a man weakened deliber-
ately day by day by insufficient food, and the horrible
process of denying him rest It seemed inconceivable
that human, sentient beings should have thought of such
a thing. Perspiration stood up in beads on Sir Andrew's
brow when he thought of his friend, brought down by
want of sleep to — what? His physique was splendidly
powerful, but could it stand against such racking torment
for long? And the clear, the alert mind, the scheming
brain, the reckless daring — how soon would these become
enfeebled by the slow, steady torture of an utter want of
rest?

Ffoulkes had to smother a cry of horror, which surely
must have drawn the attention of that fiend on himself
had he not been so engrossed in the enjoyment of his own
devilry. As it is, he ran out of the stuffy eating-house,
for he felt as if its fetid air must choke him.

For an hour after that he wandered about the streets,
not daring to face Marguerite, lest his eyes betrayed some
of the horror which was shaking his very soul.

That was twenty-four hours ago. To-day he had learnt
little else. It was generally known that the Englishman
was in the Conciergerie prison, that he was being closely
watched, and that his trial would come on within the next
few days ; but no one seemed to know exactly when. The
public was getting restive, demanding that trial and ex-
ecution to which every one seemed to look forward as to a
holiday. In the meanwhile the escape of the Dauphin had
been kept from the knowledge of the public; Heron and
his gang, fearing for their lives, had still hopes of extract-
ing from the Englishman the secret of the lad's hiding-

PARIS ONCE MORE 2S7

place, and the means they employed for arriving at this
end was worthy of Lucifer and his host of devils in hell.

From other fragments of conversation which Sir An-
drew Ffoulkes had gleaned that same evening, it seemed to
him that in order to hide their defalcations Heron and the
four commissaries in charge of little Capet had substituted
a deaf and dumb child for the escaped little prisoner.
This miserable small wreck of humanity was reputed to be
sick and kept in a darkened room, in bed, and was in that
condition exhibited to any member of the Convention who
had the right to see him. A partition had been very hastily
erected in the inner room once occupied by the Simons,
and the child was kept behind that partition, and no one
was allowed to come too near to him. Thus the fraud
was succeeding fairly well. Heron and his accomplices
only cared to save their skins, and the wretched little sub-
stitute being really ill, they firmly hoped that he would
soon die, when no doubt they would bruit abroad the news
of the death of Capet, which would relieve them of further
responsibility.

That such ideas, such thoughts, such schemes should
have engendered in human minds it is almost impossible
to conceive, and yet we know from no less important a
witness than Madame Simon herself that the child who
died in the Temple a few weeks later was a poor little
imbecile, a deaf and dumb child brought hither from one
of the asylums and left to die in peace. There was no-
body but kindly Death to take him out of his misery, for
the giant intellect that had planned and carried out the
rescue of the uncrowned King of France, and which alone
might have had the power to save him too, was being
broken on the rack of enforced sleeplessness.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE BITTEREST FOE

That same evening Sir Andrew Ffouflces, having an-
nounced his intention of gleaning further news of Armand,
if possible, went out shortly after seven o'clock, promis-
ing to be home again about nine.

Marguerite, on the other band, had to make her friend
a solemn promise that she would try and eat some supper
which the landlady of these miserable apartments had
agreed to prepare for her. So far they had been left in
peaceful occupation of these squalid lodgings in a tumble-
down house on the Quai de la Ferraille, facing the house
of Justice, the grim walls of which Marguerite would
watch with wide-open dry eyes for as long as the grey
wintry light lingered over them.

Even now, though the darkness had set in, and snow,
falling in close, small nakes, threw a thick white veil over
the landscape, she sat at the open window long after Sir
Andrew had gone out, watching the few small flicks of
light that blinked across from the other side of the river,
and which came from the windows of the Chatelet towers.
The windows of the Conciergerie she could not see, for
these gave on one of the inner courtyards; but there was
a melancholy consolation even in the gazing on those walls
that held in their cruel, grim embrace all that she loved in
the world.

It seemed so impossible to think of Percy — the laugh-
ter-loving, irresponsible, light-hearted adventurer — as the
338

THE BITTEREST FOE 239

prey of those fiends who would revel in their triumph, who
would crush him, humiliate him, insult him — ye gods
alive I even torture him, perhaps — that they might break
the indomitable spirit that would mock them even on the
threshold of death.

Surely, surely God would never allow such monstrous
infamy as the deliverance of the noble soaring eagle into
the hands of those preying jackals ! Marguerite — though
her heart ached beyond what human nature could endure,
though her anguish on her husband's account was doubled
by that which she felt for her brother — could not bring
herself to give up all hope. Sir Andrew said it rightly;
while there was life there was hope. While there was life
in those vigorous limbs, spirit in that daring mind, how
could puny, rampant beasts gain the better of the immortal
soul? As for Armand — why, if Percy were free she
would have no cause to fear for Armand.

She sighed a sigh of deep, of passionate regret and long-
ing. If she could only see her husband; if she could only
look for one second into those laughing, lazy eyes, wherein
she alone knew how to fathom the infinity of passion that
lay within their depths; if she could but once feel his
ardent kiss on her lips, she could more easily endure this
agonising suspense, and wait confidently and courageously
for the issue.

She turned away from the window, for the night was
getting bitterly cold. From the tower of St. Germain
I'Auxerrois the clock slowly struck eight. Even as the
last sound of the historic bell died away in the distance
she heard a timid knocking at the door.

"Enter I" she called unthinkingly.

She thought it was her landlady, come up with more
wood, mayhap, for the fire, so she did not turn to the door

240 ELDORADO

when she heard it being slowly opened, then closed again,
and presently a soft tread on the threadbare carpet.

"May I crave your kind attention, Lady Blakeney?"
said a harsh voice, subdued to tones of ordinary cour-
tesy.

She quickly repressed a cry of terror. How well she
knew that voice 1 When last she heard it it was at
Boulogne, dictating that infamous letter — the weapon
wherewith Percy had so effectually foiled his enemy. She
turned and faced the man who was her bitterest foe —
hers in the person of the man she loved.

" Chauvelin ! " she gasped.

" Himself at your service, dear lady," he said simply.

He stood in the full light of the lamp, his trim, small
figure boldly cut out against the dark wall beyond. He
wore the usual sable-coloured clothes which he affected,
with the primly-folded jabot and cuffs edged with narrow
lace.

Without waiting for permission from her he quietly
and deliberately placed his hat and cloak on a chair. Then
he turned once more toward her, and made a movement
as if to advance into the room; but instinctively she put
up a hand as if to ward off the calamity of his approach.

He shrugged his shoulders, and the shadow of a smile,
that had neither mirth nor kindliness in it, hovered round
the corners of his thin lips,

" Have I your permission to sit ? " he asked.

" As you will," she replied slowly, keeping her wide-
open eyes fixed upon him as does a frightened bird upon
the serpent whom it loathes and fears.

" And may I crave a few moments of your undivided
attention, Lady Blakeney ? " he continued, taking a chair,
and so placing it beside the table that the light of the lamp

THE BITTEREST FOE 8M

when he sat remained behind him and his face was left in
shadow.

"Is it necessary?" asked Marguerite.

" It is," he replied curtly, " if you desire to see and
speak with your husband — to be of use to him before it
is too late."

" Then, I pray you, speak, citizen, and I will listen."

She sank into a chair, not heeding whether the light of
the lamp fell on her face or not, whether the lines in her
haggard cheeks, or her tear-dimmed eyes showed plainly
the sorrow and despair that had traced them. She had
nothing to hide from this man, the cause of all the tortures
which she endured. She knew that neither courage nor
sorrow would move him, and that hatred for Percy —
personal deadly hatred for the man who had twice foiled
him — had long crushed the last spark of humanity in his
heart.

" Perhaps, Lady Blakeney," he began after a slight pause
and in his smooth, even voice, " it would interest you to
hear how I succeeded in procuring for myself this pleas-
ure of an interview with you?"

" Your spies did their usual work, I suppose," she said
coldly.

" Exactly. We have been on your track for three days,
and yesterday evening an unguarded movement on the
part of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes gave us the final clue to your
whereabouts."

" Of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? " she asked, greatly puzzled,

" He was in an eating-house, cleverly disguised, I own,
trying to glean information, no doubt as to the probable
fate of Sir Percy Blakeney. As chance would have it,
my friend Heron, of the Committee of General Security,
chanced to be discussing with reprehensible openness — er

242 ELDORADO

— certain — what shall I say? — certain measures which,
at my advice, the Committee of Public Safety have been
forced to adopt with a view to — "

"A truce on your smooth-tongued speeches, citizen
Chauvelin," she interposed firmly. " Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
has told me naught of this — so I pray you speak plainly
and to the point, if you can."

He bowed with marked irony.

" As you please," he said. " Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
hearing certain matters of which I will tell you anon, made
a movement which betrayed him to one of our spies. At
a word from citizen Heron this man followed on the heels
of the young farrier who had shown such interest in the
conversation of the Chief Agent Sir Andrew, I imagine,
burning with indignation at what he had heard, was per-
haps not quite so cautious as he usually is. Anyway, the
man on his track followed him to this door. It was quite
simple, as you see. As for me, I had guessed a week ago
that we would see the beautiful Lady Blakeney in Paris
before long. When I knew where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
lodged, I had no difficulty in guessing that Lady Blakeney
would not be far off."

" And what was there in citizen Heron's conversation
last night," she asked quietly, " that so aroused Sir An-
drew's indignation?"

" He has not told you? "

" No."

" Oh 1 it is very simple. Let me tell you, Lady Blakeney,
exactly how matters stand. Sir Percy Blakeney — be-
fore lucky chance at last delivered him into our hands —
thought fit, as no doubt you know, to meddle with our
most important prisoner of State."

"A child. I know it, sir — the son of a murdered

THE BITTEREST FOE 2iS

father whom you and your friends were slowly doing to
death."

" That is as it may be, Lady Blakeney," rejoined
Chauvelin calmly ; " but it was none of Sir Percy Blakeney 's
business. This, however, he chose to disregard. He
succeeded in carrying little Capet from the Temple, and
two days later we had him under lock, and key."

"Through some infamous and treacherous trick, sir,"
she retorted.

Chauvelin made no immediate reply; his pale, inscru-
table eyes were fixed upon her face, and the smile of irony
round his mouth appeared more strongly marked than be-
fore.

"That, again, is as it may be," he said suavely; "but
anyhow for the moment we have the upper hand. Sir
Percy is in the Conciergerie, guarded day and night,. more
closely than Marie Antoinette even was guarded."

" And he laughs at your bolts and bars, sir," she re-
joined proudly. " Remember Calais, remember Boulogne.
His laugh at your discomfiture, then, must resound in your
ear even to-day."

"Yes; but for the moment laughter is on our side.
Still we are willing to forego even that pleasure, if Sir
Percy will but move a finger towards his own freedom."

"Again some infamous letter?" she asked with bitter
contempt; "some attempt against his honour?"

" No, no. Lady Blakeney," he interposed with perfect
blandness. " Matters are so much simpler now, you see.
We hold Sir Percy at our mercy. We could send him to
the guillotine to-morrow, but we might be willing — re-
member, I only say we might — to exercise our preroga-
tive of mercy if Sir Percy Blakeney will on his side accede
to a request from us."

£44 ELDORADO

"And that request?"

" Is a very natural one. He took Capet away from us,
and it is but credible that he knows at the present moment
exactly where the child is. Let him instruct his followers
— and I mistake not, Lady Blakeney, there are several of
them not very far from Paris just now — let him, I say,
instruct these followers of his to return the person of
young Capet to us, and not only will we undertake to give
these same gentlemen a safe conduct back to England, but
we even might be inclined to deal somewhat less harshly
with the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel himself."

She laughed a harsh, mirthless, contemptuous laugh.

" I don't think that I quite understand," she said after
a moment or two, whilst he waited calmly until her out-
break of hysterical mirth had subsided. " You want my
husband — the Scarlet Pimpernel, citizen — to deliver the
little King of France to you after he has risked his life to
save the child out of your clutches? Is that what you are
trying to say?"

"It is," rejoined Chauvelin complacently, "just what
we have been saying to Sir Percy Blakeney for the past
six days, madame."

"Well! then you have had your answer, have you
not? "

" Yes," he replied slowly; "but the answer has become
weaker day by day."

"Weaker? I don't understand."

" Let me explain, Lady Blakeney," said Chauvelin, now
with measured emphasis. He put both elbows on the table
and leaned well forward, peering into her face, lest one of
its varied expressions escaped him. "Just now you
taunted me with my failure in Calais, and again at Bou-
logne, with a proud toss of the head, which I own is exces-

THE BITTEREST FOE 245

sively becoming; you threw the name of the Scarlet Pim-
pernel in my face like a challenge which I no longer dare
to accept ' The Scarlet Pimpernel,' you would say to me,
* stands for loyalty, for honour, and for indomitable cour-
age. Think you he would sacrifice his honour to obtain
your mercy ? Remember Boulogne and your discom-
fiture 1 ' All of which, dear lady, is perfectly charming
and womanly and enthusiastic, and I, bowing my humble
head, must own that I was fooled in Calais and baffled in
Boulogne. But in Boulogne I made a grave mistake, and
one from which I learned a lesson, which I am putting into
practice now."

He paused a while as if waiting for her reply. His pale,
keen eyes had already noted that with every phrase he
uttered the lines in her beautiful face became more hard
and set. A look of horror was gradually spreading over
it, as if the icy-cold hand of death had passed over her
eyes and cheeks, leaving them rigid like stone.

" In Boulogne," resumed Chauvelin quietly, satisfied
that his words were hitting steadily at her heart — "in
Boulogne Sir Percy and I did not fight an equal fight.
Fresh from a pleasant sojourn in his own magnificent home,
full of the spirit of adventure which puts the essence of
life into a man's veins, Sir Percy Blakeney's splendid
physique was pitted against my feeble powers. Of course
I lost the battle. I made the mistake of trying to subdue
a man who was in the zenith of his strength, whereas
now — "

" Yes, citizen Chauvelin," she said, " whereas now — "

" Sir Percy Blakeney has been in the prison of the Con-
ciergerie for exactly one week, Lady Blakeney," he replied,
speaking very slowly, and letting every one of his words
sink individually into her mind. " Even before he had

S46 ELDORADO

time to take the bearings of his cell or to plan on his own
behalf one of those remarkable escapes for which he is so
justly famous, our men began to work on a scheme which
I am proud to say originated with myself. A week has
gone by since then. Lady Blakeney, and during that time a
special company of prison guard, acting under the orders
of the Committee of General Security and of Public Safety,
have questioned the prisoner unremittingly — unremit-
tingly, remember — day and night Two by two these
men take it in turns to enter the prisoner's cell every quar-
ter of an hour — lately it has had to be more often — and
ask him the one question, 'Where is little Capet?' Up
to now we have received no satisfactory reply, although
we have explained to Sir Percy that many of his followers
are honouring the neighbourhood of Paris with their visit,
and that all we ask for from him are instructions to those
gallant gentlemen to bring young Capet back to us. It is
all very simple, unfortunately the prisoner is somewhat
obstinate. At first, even, the idea seemed to amuse him;
he used to laugh and say that he always had the faculty
of sleeping with his eyes open. But our soldiers are un-
tiring in their efforts, and the want of sleep as well as of
a sufficiency of food and of fresh air is certainly beginning
to tell on Sir Percy Blakeney's magnificent physique. I
don't think that it will be very long before he gives way to
our gentle persuasions ; and in any case now, I assure you,
dear lady, that we need not fear any attempt on his part
to escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across
this room — "

Marguerite had sat quite silent and apparently impas-
sive all the while that Chauvelin had been speaking; even
now she scarcely stirred. Her face expressed absolutely
nothing but deep puzzlement. There was a frown between

THE BITTEREST FOE 247

her brows, and her eyes, which were always of such liquid
blue, now looked almost black. She was trying to visualise
that which Chauvelin had put before her: a man harassed
day and night, unceasingly, unremittingly, with one ques-
tion — allowed neither respite nor sleep — his brain, soul,
and body fagged out at every hour, every moment of the
day and night, until mind and body and soul must inevitably
give way under anguish ten thousand times more unen-
durable than any physical torment invented by monsters in
barbaric times.

That man thus harassed, thus fagged out, thus martyrised
at all hours of the day and night, was her husband, whom
she loved with every fibre of her being, with every throb of
her heart.

Torture? Oh, no! these were advanced and civilised
times that could afford to look with horror on the excesses
of mediaeval days. This was a revolution that made for
progress, and challenged the opinion of the world. The
cells of the Temple of La Force or the Conciergerie held
no secret inquisition with iron maidens and racks and
thumbscrews ; but a few men had put their tortuous brains
together, and had said one to another : " We want to find
out from that man where we can lay our hands on little
Capet, so we won't let him sleep until he has told us. It is
not torture — oh, no I Who would dare to say that we
torture our prisoners ? It is only a little horseplay, worry-
ing to the prisoner, no doubt ; but, after all, he can end the
unpleasantness at any moment. He need but to answer
our question, and he can go to sleep as comfortably as a
little child. The want of sleep is very trying, the want of
proper food and of fresh air is very weakening; the pris-
oner must give way sooner or later — "

So these fiends had decided it between them, and they

£46 ELDORADO

bad put their idea into execution for one whole week.

Marguerite looked at Chauvelin as she would on some
monstrous, inscrutable Sphinx, marvelling if God — even
in His anger — could really have created such a fiendish
brain, or, having created it, could allow it to wreak such
devilry unpunished.

Even now she felt that he was enjoying the mental
anguish which he had put upon her, and she saw his thin,
evil lips curled into a smile.

" So you came to-night to tell me all this?" she asked
as soon as she could trust herself to speak. Her impulse
was to shriek out her indignation, her horror of him, into
his face. She longed to call down God's eternal curse upon
this fiend ; but instinctively she held herself in check. Her
indignation, her words of loathing would only have added
to his delight

"You have had your wish," she added coldly; "now, I
pray you, go."

" Your pardon, Lady Blakeney," he said with all his
habitual blandness; "my object in coming to see you to-
night was twofold. Methought that I was acting as your
friend in giving you authentic news of Sir Percy, and in
suggesting the possibility of yoar adding your persuasion
to ours."

" My persuasion ? You mean that I — "

" You would wish to see your husband, would you not.
Lady Blakeney?"

" Yes."

" Then I pray you command me. I will grant you the
permission whenever you wish to go."

" You are in the hope, citizen," she said, " that I will do
my best to break my husband's spirit by my tears or my
prayers — is that it? "

THE BITTEREST FOE 249

" Not necessarily," he replied pleasantly. " I assure you
that we can manage to do that ourselves, in time."

" You devil ! " The cry of pain and of horror was in-
voluntarily wrung from the depths of her soul. " Are you
not afraid that God's hand will strike you where you
stand ? "

" No," he said lightly ; " I am not afraid. Lady Blakeney.
You see, I do not happen to believe in God. Come ! " he
added more seriously, " have I not proved to you that my
offer is disinterested? Yet I repeat it even now. If you
desire to see Sir Percy in prison, command me, and the
doors shall be open to you."

She waited a moment, looking him straight and quite
dispassionately in the face; then she said coldly:

" Very well ! I will go."

"When?" he asked.

" This evening."

"Just as you wish. I would have to go and see my
friend Heron first, and arrange with him for your visit."

" Then go. I will follow in half an hour."

" C'est entendu. Will you be at the main entrance of
the Conciergerie at half-past nine? You know it, per-
haps — no? It is in the Rue de la Barillerie, immediately
on the right at the foot of the great staircase of the house
of Justice."

" Of the house of Justice ! " she exclaimed involuntarily,
a world of bitter contempt in her cry. Then she added
in her former matter-of-fact tones:

" Very good, citizen. At half-past nine I will be at the
entrance you name."

" And I will be at the door prepared to escort you."

He took up his hat and coat and bowed ceremoniously
to her. Then he turned to go. At the door a cry from

250 ELDORADO

her — involuntarily enough, God knows ! — made him
pause.

" My interview with the prisoner," she said, vainly try-
ing, poor soul ! to repress that quiver of anxiety in her
voice, "it will be private?"

"Oh, yes! Of course," he replied with a reassuring
smile. "Ah revoir, Lady Blakeneyl Half-past nine, re-
member — "

She could no longer trust herself to look on him as he
finally took his departure. She was afraid — yes, ab-
solutely afraid that her fortitude would give way — meanly,
despicably, uselessly give way; that she would suddenly
fling herself at the feet of that sneering, inhuman wretch,
that she would pray, implore — Heaven above! what
might she not do in the face of this awful reality, if the
last lingering shred of vanishing reason, of pride, and of
courage did not hold her in check?

Therefore she forced herself not to look on that depart-
ing, sable-clad figure, on that evil face, and those hands
that held Percy's fate in their cruel grip; but her ears
caught the welcome sound of his departure — the opening
and shutting of the door, his light footstep echoing down
the stone stairs.

When at last she felt that she was really alone she uttered
a loud cry like a wounded doe, and falling on her knees
she buried her face in her hands in a passionate fit of weep-
ing. Violent sobs shook her entire frame; it seemed as
if an overwhelming anguish was tearing at her heart —
the physical pain of it was almost unendurable. And yet
even through this paroxysm of tears her mind clung to
one root idea : when she saw Percy she must be brave and
calm, be able to help him if he wanted her, to do his bid-
ding if there was anything that she could do, or any mes-

THE BITTEREST FOE

251

sage that she could take to the others. Of hope she had
none. The last lingering ray of it had been extinguished
by that fiend when he said, " We need not fear that he
will escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across
this room now."

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE CONCIERGEBIE

Marguerite, accompanied by Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
walked rapidly along the quay. It lacked ten minutes to
the half hour; the night was dark and bitterly cold. Snow
was still falling in sparse, thin flakes, and lay like a crisp
and glittering mantle over the parapets of the bridges and
the grim towers of the Chatelet prison.

They walked on silently now. All that they had wanted
to say to one another had been said inside the squalid room
of their lodgings when Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had come
home and learned that Chauvelin had been.

" They are killing him by inches, Sir Andrew," had been
the heartrending cry which burst from Marguerite's op-
pressed heart as soon as her hands rested in the kindly
ones of her best friend. " Is there aught that we can do ? "

There was, of course, very little that could be done.
One or two fine steel files which Sir Andrew gave her to
conceal beneath the folds of her kerchief; also a tiny
dagger with sharp, poisoned blade, which for a moment
she held in her hand hesitating, her eyes filling with tears,
her heart throbbing with unspeakable sorrow.

Then slowly — very slowly — she raised the small,
death-dealing instrument to her lips, and reverently kissed
the narrow blade.

"If it must be!" she murmured, "God in His mercy
will forgive!"

IN THE CONCIERGERIE 253

She sheathed the dagger, and this, too, she hid in the
folds of her gown.

*' Can you think of anything else. Sir Andrew, that he
might want?" she asked. "I have money in plenty, in
case those soldiers — "

Sir Andrew sighed, and turned away from her so as to
hide the hopelessness which he felt. Since three days now
he had been exhausting every conceivable means of getting
at the prison guard with bribery and corruption. But
Chauvelin and his friends had taken excellent precautions.
The prison of the Conciergerie, situated as it was in the
very heart of the labyrinthine and complicated structure of
the Chatelet and the house of Justice, and isolated from
every other group of cells in the building, was inaccessible
save from one narrow doorway which gave on the guard-
room first, and thence on the inner cell beyond. Just as
all attempts to rescue the late unfortunate Queen from that
prison had failed, so now every attempt to reach the im-
prisoned Scarlet Pimpernel was equally doomed to bitter
disappointment.

The guard-room was filled with soldiers day and night ;
the windows of the inner cell, heavily barred, were too
small to admit of the passage of a human body, and they
were raised twenty feet from the corridor below. Sir
Andrew had stood in the corridor two days ago, he had
looked on the window behind which he knew that his friend
must be eating out his noble heart in a longing for liberty,
and he had realised then that every effort at help from the
outside was foredoomed to failure.

" Courage, Lady Blakeney," he said to Marguerite,
when anon they had crossed the Pont au Change, and were
wending their way slowly along the Rue de la Barillerie;
" remember our proud dictum : the Scarlet Pimpernel

264 ELDORADO

never fails ! and also this, that whatever messages Blakeney
gives you for us, whatever he wishes us to do, we are
to a man ready to do it, and to give our lives for our chief.
Courage I Something tells me that a man like Percy is
not going to die at the bands of such vermin as Chauvelin
and his friends."

They had reached the great iron gates of the house of
Justice. Marguerite, trying to smile, extended her trem-
bling hand to this faithful, loyal comrade.

" I'll not be far," he said. " When you come out do
not look to the right or left, but make straight for home ;
I'll not lose sight of you for a moment, and as soon as
possible will overtake you. God bless you both."

He pressed his lips on her cold little hand, and watched
her tall, elegant figure as she passed through the great gates
until the veil of falling snow hid her from his gaze. Then
with a deep sigh of bitter anguish and sorrow he turned
away and was soon lost in the gloom.

Marguerite found the gate at the bottom of the monu-
mental stairs open when she arrived. Chauvelin was
standing immediately inside the building waiting for her.

" We are prepared for your visit, Lady Blakeney," he
said, " and the prisoner knows that you are coming."

He led the way down one of the numerous and intermi-
nable corridors of the building, and she followed briskly,
pressing her hand against her bosom there where the folds
of her kerchief hid the steel files and the precious dagger.

Even in the gloom of these ill-lighted passages she
realised that she was surrounded by guards. There were
soldiers everywhere; two had stood behind the door when
first she entered, and had immediately closed it with a loud
clang behind her; and all the way down the corridors,
through the half-light engendered by feebly flickering

IN THE CONCIERGERIE 865

lamps, she caught glimpses of the white facings on the
uniforms of the town guard, or occasionally the glint of
steel of a bayonet. Presently Chauvelin paused beside a
door, which he had just reached. His hand was on the
latch, for it did not appear to be locked, and he turned to-
ward Marguerite.

" I am very sorry, Lady Blakeney," he said in simple,
deferential tones, " that the prison authorities, who at my
request are granting you this interview at such an un-
usual hour, have made a slight condition to your visit."

"A condition?" she asked. "What is it?"

" You must forgive me," he said, as if purposely evad-
ing her question, " for I give you my word that I had
nothing to do with a regulation that you might justly feel
was derogatory to your dignity. If you will kindly step
in here a wardress in charge will explain to you what is
required."

He pushed open the door, and stood aside ceremoniously
in order to allow her to pass in. She looked on him with
deep puzzlement and a look of dark suspicion in her eyes.
But her mind was too much engrossed with the thought
of her meeting with Percy to worry over any trifle that
might — as her enemy had inferred — offend her womanly
dignity.

She walked into the room, past Chauvelin, who whis-
pered as she went by:

" I will wait for you here. And, I pray you, if you have
aught to complain of summon me at once."

Then he closed the door behind her. The room in which
Marguerite now found herself was a small unventilated
quadrangle, dimly lighted by a hanging lamp. A woman
in a soiled cotton gown and lank grey hair brushed away
from a parchment-like forehead rose from the chair in

256 ELDORADO

which she had been sitting when Marguerite entered, and
put away some knitting on which she had apparently been
engaged.

" I was to tell you, citizeness," she said the moment the
door had been closed and she was alone with Marguerite,
" that the prison authorities have given orders that I should
search you before you visit the prisoner."

She repeated this phrase mechanically like a child who
has been taught to say a lesson by heart She was a
stoutish middle-aged woman, with that pasty, flabby skin
peculiar to those who live in want of fresh air; but her
small, dark eyes were not unkindly, although they shifted
restlessly from one object to another as if she were trying
to avoid looking the other woman straight in the face.

"That you should search met" reiterated Marguerite
slowly, trying to understand.

" Yes," replied the woman. " I was to tell you to take
off your clothes, so that I might look them through and
through. I have often had to do this before when visitors
have been allowed inside the prison, so it is no use your
trying to deceive me in any way. I am very sharp at find-
ing out if any one has papers, or files or ropes concealed
in an underpetticoat. Come," she added more roughly,
seeing that Marguerite had remained motionless in the
middle of the room ; " the quicker you are about it the
sooner you will be taken to see the prisoner."

These words had their desired effect. The proud Lady
Blakeney, inwardly revolting at the outrage, knew that
resistance would be worse than useless. Chauvelin was
the other side of the door. A call from the woman would
bring him to her assistance, and Marguerite was only long-
ing to hasten the moment when she could be with her hus-
band.

IN THE CONCIERGERIE 257

She took off her kerchief and her gown and calmly sub-
mitted to the woman's rough hands as they wandered with
sureness and accuracy to the various pockets and folds that
might conceal prohibited articles. The woman did her
work with peculiar stolidity ; she did not utter a word when
she found the tiny steel files and placed them on a table
beside her. In equal silence she laid the little dagger be-
side them, and the purse which contained twenty gold
pieces. These she counted in front of Marguerite and
then replaced them in the purse. Her face expressed
neither surprise, nor greed nor pity. She was obviously
beyond the reach of bribery — just a machine paid by the
prison authorities to do this unpleasant work, and no doubt
terrorised into doing it conscientiously.

When she had satisfied herself that Marguerite had noth-
ing further concealed about her person, she allowed her to
put her dress on once more. She even offered to help her
on with it. When Marguerite was fully dressed she opened
the door for her. Chauvelin was standing in the passage
waiting patiently. At sight of Marguerite, whose pale,
set face betrayed nothing of the indignation which she felt,
he turned quick, inquiring eyes on the woman.

" Two files, a dagger and a purse with twenty louis," said
the latter curtly.

Chauvelin made no comment. He received the infor-
mation quite placidly, as if it had no special interest for
him. Then he said quietly:

" This way, citizeness I "

Marguerite followed him, and two minutes later he stood
beside a heavy nail-studded door that had a small square
grating let into one of the panels, and said simply:

" This is it"

Two soldiers of the National Guard were on Mntry at

•

26ft ELDORADO

the door, two more were pacing up and down outside it,
and had halted when citizen Chauvelin gave his name and
showed his tricolour scarf of office. From behind the
small grating in the door a pair of eyes peered at the new-
comers.

" Qui va lilt" came the quick challenge from the guard-
room within.

" Citizen Chauvelin of the Committee of Public Safety,"
was the prompt reply.

There was the sound of grounding of arms, of the draw-
ing of bolts and the turning of a key in a complicated lock.
The prison was kept locked from within, and very heavy
bars had to be moved ere the ponderous door slowly swung
open on its hinges.

Two steps led up into the guard-room. Marguerite
mounted them with the same feeling of awe and almost
of reverence as she would have mounted the steps of a
sacrificial altar.

The guard-room itself was more brilliantly lighted than
the corridor outside. The sudden glare of two or three
lamps placed about the room caused her momentarily to
close her eyes that were aching with many shed and unshed
tears. The air was rank and heavy with the fumes of
tobacco, of wine and stale food. A large barred window
gave on the corridor immediately above the door.

When Marguerite felt strong enough to look around her,
she saw that the room was filled with soldiers. Some were
sitting, others standing, others lay on rugs against the wall,
apparently asleep. There was one who appeared to be in
command, for with a word he checked the noise that was
going on in the room when she entered, and then he said
curtly:

"This way, citizeness!"

IN THE CONCIERGERIE

259

He turned to an opening in the wall on the left, the
stone-lintel of a door, from which the door itself had been
removed ; an iron bar ran across the opening, and this the
sergeant now lifted, nodding to Marguerite to go within.

Instinctively she looked round for Chauvelin.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER XXVm

THE CAGED I JON

Was there some instinct of humanity left in the soldier
who allowed Marguerite through the barrier into the
prisoner's cell ? Had the wan face of this beautiful woman
stirred within his heart the last chord of gentleness that
was not wholly atrophied by the constant cruelties, the ex-
cesses, the mercilessness which his service under this
fraternising republic constantly demanded of him?

Perhaps some recollection of former years, when first
he served his King and country, recollection of wife or
sister or mother pleaded within him in favour of this sorely-
stricken woman with the look of unspeakable sorrow in
her large blue eyes.

Certain it is that as soon as Marguerite passed the barrier
he put himself on guard against it with his back to the
interior of the cell and to her.

Marguerite had paused on the threshold.

After the glaring light of the guard-room the cell seemed
dark, and at first she could hardly see. The whole length
of the long, narrow cubicle lay to her left, with a slight
recess at its further end, so that from the threshold of the
doorway she could not see into the distant corner. Swift
as a lightning flash the remembrance came back to her of
proud Marie Antoinette narrowing her life to that dark
comer where the insolent eyes of the rabble soldiery could
not spy her every movement.

Marguerite stepped further into the room. Gradually

THE CAGED LION 261

by the dim light of an oil lamp placed upon a table in the
recess she began to distinguish various objects : one or two
chairs, another table, and a small but very comfortable-
looking camp bedstead.

Just for a few seconds she only saw these inanimate
things, then she became conscious of Percy's presence.

He sat on a chair, with his left arm half-stretched out
upon the table, his head hidden in the bend of the elbow.

Marguerite did not utter a cry ; she did not even tremble.
Just for one brief instant she closed her eyes, so as to
gather up all her courage before she dared to look again.
Then with a steady and noiseless step she came quite close
to him. She knelt on the flagstones at his feet and raised
reverently to her lips the hand that hung nerveless and
limp by his side.

He gave a start; a shiver seemed to go right through
him; he half raised his head and murmured in a hoarse
whisper :

" I tell you that I do not know, and if I did — "

She put her arms round him and pillowed her head upon
his breast He turned his head slowly toward her, and
now his eyes — hollowed and rimmed with purple —
looked straight into hers.

" My beloved," he said, " I knew that you would come."

His arms closed round her. There was nothing of life-
lessness or of weariness in the passion of that embrace;
and when she looked up again it seemed to her as if that
first vision which she had had of him with weary head
bent, and wan, haggard face was not reality, only a dream
born of her own anxiety for him, for now the hot, ardent
blood coursed just as swiftly as ever through his veins, as
if life — strong, tenacious, pulsating life — throbbed with
unabated vigour in those massive limbs, and behind that

2CC ELDORADO

jqaaie, dear brow as though the body, bat half snhdaed,
had transferred its vanishing strength to the kind and
noble heart that was beating with the fervour of self-
sacrifice.

** Percy," she said gently, ** they will only give as a few
moments together. They thought that my tears would
break yoor spirit where their devilry had failed."

He held her glance with his own, with that close, intent
look which binds soul to soul, and in his deep bine eyes
there danced the restless flames of his own undying mirth :

" La! little woman," be said with enforced lightness,
even whilst his voice quivered with the intensity of passion
engendered by her presence, her nearness, the perfume of
her hair, "how little they know you, eh? Yonr brave,
beautiful, exquisite soul, shining now through your glo-
rious eyes, would defy the machinations of Satan himself
and his horde. Gose your dear eyes, my love. I shall go
mad with joy if I drink their beauty in any longer."

He held her face between his two hands, and indeed it
teemed as if he could not satiate his soul with looking into
her eyes. In the midst of so much sorrow, such misery
and such deadly fear, never had Marguerite felt quite so
happy, never had she felt him so completely her own. The
inevitable bodily weakness, which of necessity had invaded
even his splendid physique after a whole week's privations,
had made a severe breach in the invincible barrier of self-
control with which the soul of the inner man was kept
perpetually hidden behind a mask of indifference and of
irresponsibility.

And yet the agony of seeing the lines of sorrow so
plainly writ on the beautiful face of the woman he wor-
shipped must have been the keenest that the bold adventurer
had ever experienced in the whole course of his reckless

THE CAGED LION 268

life. It was he — and he alone — who was making her
suffer; her for whose sake he would gladly have shed every
drop of his blood, endured every torment, every misery
and every humiliation; her whom he worshipped only one
degree less than he worshipped his honour and the cause
which he had made his own.

Yet, in spite of that agony, in spite of the heartrending
pathos of her pale wan face, and through the anguish of
seeing her tears, the ruling passion — strong in death —
the spirit of adventure, the mad, wild, devil-may-care irre-
sponsibility was never wholly absent

" Dear heart," he said with a quaint sigh, whilst he
buried his face in the soft masses of her hair, " until you
came I was so d d fatigued."

He was laughing, and the old look of boyish love of
mischief illumined his haggard face.

" Is it not lucky, dear heart," he said a moment or two
later, " that those brutes do not leave me unshaved ? I
could not have faced you with a week's growth of beard
round my chin. By dint of promises and bribery I have
persuaded one of that rabble to come and shave me every
morning. They will not allow me to handle a razor my-
self. They are afraid I should cut my throat — or one of

theirs. But mostly I am too d d sleepy to think of

such a thing."

" Percy 1 " she exclaimed with tender and passionate re-
proach.

" I know — I know, dear," he murmured, " what a
brute I ami Ah, God did a cruel thing the day that He
threw me in your path. To think that once — not so very
long ago — we were drifting apart, you and I. You
would have suffered less, dear heart, if we had continued
to drift."

'

464, ELDORADO

Then as he saw that his bantering tone pained her, he
covered her hands with kisses, entreating her forgiveness.

" Dear heart," he said merrily, *' I deserve that you
should leave me to rot in this abominable cage. They
haven't got me yet, little woman, you know ; I am not yet

dead — only d d sleepy at times. But I'll cheat them

even now, never fear."

" How, Percy — how?" she moaned, for her heart was
aching with intolerable pain; she knew better than he did
the precautions which were being taken against his escape,
and she saw more clearly than he realised it himself the
terrible barrier set up against that escape by ever encroach-
ing physical weakness.

" Well, dear," he said simply, *' to tell you the truth I
have not yet thought of that all-important ' how.* I had
to wait, you see, until you came. I was so sure that you
would come ! I have succeeded in putting on paper all my
instructions for Ffoulkes and the others. I will give. them
to you anon. I knew that you would come, and that I
could give them to you ; until then I had but to think of
one thing, and that was of keeping body and soul together.
My chance of seeing you was to let them have their will
with me. Those brutes were sure, sooner or later, to bring
you to me, that you might see the caged fox worn down
to imbecility, eh ? That you might add your tears to their
persuasion, and succeed where they have failed."

He laughed lightly with an unstrained note of gaiety,
only Marguerite's sensitive ears caught the faint tone of
bitterness which rang through the laugh.

" Once I know that the little King of France is safe," he
said, " I can think of how best to rob those d d mur-
derers of my skin."

Then suddenly his manner changed. He still held her

THE CAGED LION 265

with one arm closely to him, but the other now lay across
the table, and the slender, emaciated hand was tightly
clutched. He did not look at her, but straight ahead ; the
eyes, unnaturally large now, with their deep purple rims,
looked far ahead beyond the stone walls of this grim, cruel
prison.

The passionate lover, hungering for his beloved, had
vanished ; there sat the man with a purpose, the man whose
firm hand had snatched men and women and children from
death, the reckless enthusiast who tossed his life against
an ideal.

For a while he sat thus, while in his drawn and haggard
face she could trace every line formed by his thoughts —
the frown of anxiety, the resolute setting of the lips, the
obstinate look of will around the firm jaw. Then he turned
again to her.

" My beautiful one," he said softly, " the moments are
very precious. God knows I could spend eternity thus
with your dear form nestling against my heart. But those

d -d murderers will only give us half an hour, and I

want your help, my beloved, now that I am a helpless cur
caught in their trap. Will you listen attentively, dear
heart, to what I am going to say ? "

" Yes, Percy, I will listen," she replied.

" And have you the courage to do just what I tell you,
dear ? "

" I would not have courage to do aught else," she said
simply.

" It means going from hence to-day, dear heart, and per-
haps not meeting again. Hush-sh-sh, my beloved," he said,
tenderly placing his thin hand over her mouth, from which
a sharp cry of pain had well-nigh escaped; "your exquisite
soul will be with me always. Try — try not to give way

266

ELDORADO

to despair. Why! your love alone, which I see shining
from your dear eyes, is enough to make a man cling to
life with all his might. Tell me! will you do as I ask
you?"

And she replied firmly and courageously:

" I will do just what you ask, Percy."

" God bless you for your courage, dear. You will have
need of it."

CHAPTER XXIX

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT HELPLESS INNOCENT

The next instant he was kneeling on the floor and his
hands were wandering over the small, irregular flagstones
immediately underneath the table. Marguerite had risen to
her feet ; she watched her husband with intent and puzzled
eyes; she saw him suddenly pass his slender fingers along a
crevice between two flagstones, then raise one of these
slightly and from beneath it extract a small bundle of
papers, each carefully folded and sealed. Then he replaced
the stone and once more rose to his knees.

He gave a quick glance toward the doorway. That
corner of his cell, the recess wherein stood the table, was
invisible to any one who had not actually crossed the thres-
hold. Reassured that his movements could not have been
and were not watched, he drew Marguerite closer to him.

" Dear heart," he whispered, " I want to place these
papers in your care. Look upon them as my last will and
testament. I succeeded in fooling those brutes one day by
pretending to be willing to accede to their will. They gave
me pen and ink and paper and wax, and I was to write
out an order to my followers to bring the Dauphin hither.
They left me in peace for one quarter of an hour, which
gave me time to write three letters — one for Armand and
the other two for Ffoulkes, and to hide them under the
flooring of my cell. You see, dear, I knew that you would
come and that I could give them to you then."

He paused, and that ghost of a smile once more hovered

X68 ELDORADO

round his lips. He was thinking of that day when he had
fooled Heron and Chauvelin into the belief that their
devilry had succeeded, and that they had brought the reck-
less adventurer to his knees. He smiled at the recollection
of their wrath when -they knew that they had been tricked,
and after a quarter of an hour's anxious waiting found a
few sheets of paper scribbled over with incoherent words or
satirical verse, and the prisoner having apparently snatched
ten minutes' sleep, which seemingly had restored to him
quite a modicum of his strength.

But of this he told Marguerite nothing, nor of the insults
and the humiliation which he had had to bear in conse-
quence of that trick. He did not tell her that directly
afterwards the order went forth that the prisoner was to
be kept on bread and water in the future, nor that Chauvelin
had stood by laughing and jeering while. . . .

No! he did not tell her all that; the recollection of it all
had still the power to make him laugh; was it not all a
part and parcel of that great gamble for human lives
wherein he had held the winning cards himself for so
long?

" It is your turn now," he had said even then to his
bitter enemy.

" Yes ! " Chauvelin had replied, " our turn at last. And
you will not bend my fine English gentleman, we'll break
you yet, never fear."

It was the thought of it all, of that hand to hand, will
to will, spirit to spirit struggle that lighted up his haggard
face even now, gave him a fresh zest for life, a desire to
combat and to conquer in spite of all, in spite of the odds
that had martyred his body but left the mind, the will, the
power still unconquered.

He was pressing one of the papers into her hand, holding

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 269

her fingers tightly in his, and compelling her gaze with the
ardent excitement of his own.

" This first letter is for Ffoulkes," he said. " It relates
to the final measures for the safety of the Dauphin. They
are my instructions to those members of the League who
are in or near Paris at the present moment Ffoulkes, I
know, must be with you — he was not likely, God bless his
loyalty, to let you come to Paris alone. Then give this
letter to him, dear heart, at once, to-night, and tell him
that it is my express command that he and the others shall
act in minute accordance with my instructions."

" But the Dauphin surely is safe now," she urged.
" Ffoulkes and the others are here in order to help you."

" To help me, dear heart ? " he interposed earnestly.
" God alone can do that now, and such of my poor wits
as these devils do not succeed in crushing out of me within
the next ten days."

" Ten days I "

" I have waited a week, until this hour when I could
place this packet in your hands; another ten days should
see the Dauphin out of France — after that, we shall see."

"Percy," she exclaimed in an agony of horror, "you
cannot endure this another day — and live I "

" Nayl " he said in a tone that was almost insolent in
its proud defiance, " there is but little that a man cannot
do an he sets his mind to it. For the rest, 'tis in God's
hands 1 " he added more gently. " Dear heart ! you swore
that you would be brave. The Dauphin is still in France,
and until he is out of it he will not really be safe; his
friends wanted to keep him inside the country. God only
knows what they still hope; had I been free I should not
have allowed him to remain so long ; now those good peo-
ple at Mantes will yield to my letter and to Ffoulkes'

270 ELDORADO

earnest appeal — they will allow one of our League to
convey the child safely out of France, and I'll wait here
until I know that he is safe. If I tried to get away now,
and succeeded — why, Heaven help us! the hue and cry
might turn against the child, and he might be captured
before I could get to him. Dear heart I dear, dear heart!
try to understand. The safety of that child is bound with
mine honour, but I swear to you, my sweet love, that the
day on which I feel that that safety is assured I will save
mine own skin — what there is left of it — if I can! "

" Percy! " she cried with a sudden outburst of passion-
ate revolt, " you speak as if the safety of that child were
of more moment than your own. Ten days! — but, God
in Heaven ! have you thought how I shall live these ten days,
whilst slowly, inch by inch, you give your dear, your
precious life for a forlorn cause?"

" I am very tough, m'dear," he said lightly ; " 'tis not
a question of life. I shall only be spending a few more

very uncomfortable days in this d d hole; but what

of that?"

Her eyes spoke the reply; her eyes veiled with tears,
that wandered with heart-breaking anxiety from the hollow
circles round his own to the lines of weariness about the
firm lips and jaw. He laughed at her solicitude.

" I can last out longer than these brutes have any idea
of," he said gaily.

" You cheat yourself, Percy," she rejoined with quiet
earnestness. " Every day that you spend immured be-
tween these walls, with that ceaseless nerve-racking torment
of sleeplessness which these devils have devised for the
breaking of your will — every day thus spent diminishes
your power of ultimately saving yourself. You see, I
speak calmly — dispassionately — I do not even urge my

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 271

claims upon your life. But what you must weigh in the
balance is the claim of all those for whom in the past you
have already staked your life, whose lives you have pur-
chased by risking your own. What, in comparison with
your noble life, is that of the puny descendant of a line of
decadent kings ? Why should it be sacrificed — ruthlessly,
hopelessly sacrificed that a boy might live who is as nothing
to the world, to his country — even to his own people? "

She had tried to speak calmly, never raising her voice
beyond a whisper. Her hands still clutched that paper,
which seemed to sear her fingers, the paper which she felt
held writ upon its smooth surface the death-sentence of
the man she loved.

But his look did not answer her firm appeal; it was
fixed far away beyond the prison walls, on a lonely country
road outside Paris, with the rain falling in a thin drizzle,
and leaden clouds overhead chasing one another, driven by
the gale.

" Poor mite," he murmured softly ; " he walked so
bravely by my side, until the little feet grew weary; then
he nestled in my arms and slept until we met Ffoulkes
waiting with the cart. He was no King of France just
then, only a helpless innocent whom Heaven aided me to
save."

Marguerite bowed her head in silence. There was
nothing more that she could say, no plea that she could
urge. Indeed, she had understood, as he had begged her
to understand. She understood that long ago he had
mapped out the course of his life, and now that that course
happened to lead up a Calvary of humiliation and of suf-
fering he was not likely to turn back, even though, on the
summit, death already was waiting and beckoning with
no uncertain hand; not until he could murmur, in the wake

272 ELDORADO

of the great and divine sacrifice itself, the sublime words:
" It is accomplished."

" But the Dauphin is safe enough now," was all that she
said, after that one moment's silence when her heart, too,
had offered up to God the supreme abnegation of self, and
calmly faced a sorrow which threatened to break it at
last.

" Yes I " he rejoined quietly, " safe enough for the mo-
ment. But he would be safer still if he were out of France,
f had hoped to take him one day with me to England. But
in this plan damnable Fate has interfered. His adherents
wanted to get him to Vienna, and their wish had best be
fulfilled now. In my instructions to Ffoulkes I have
mapped out a simple way for accomplishing the journey.
Tony will be the one best suited to lead the expedition, and
I want him to make straight for Holland; the Northern
frontiers are not so closely watched as are the Austrian
ones. There is a faithful adherent of the Bourbon cause
who lives at Delft, and who will give the shelter of his
name and home to the fugitive King of France until he
can be conveyed to Vienna. He has name Nauudorff.
Once I feel that the child is safe in his hands I will look
after myself, never fear."

He paused, for his strength, which was only factitious,
born of the excitement that Marguerite's presence had
called forth, was threatening to give way. His voice,
though he had spoken in a whisper all along, was very
hoarse, and his temples were throbbing with the sustained
effort to speak.

" If those friends had only thought of denying me food
instead of sleep," he murmured involuntarily, " I could
have held out until — "

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 873

Then with characteristic swiftness his mood changed in
. a moment. His arms closed round Marguerite once more
with a passion of self-reproach.

" Heaven forgive me for a selfish brute," he said, whilst
the ghost of a smile once more lit up the whole of his face.
"Dear soul, I must have forgotten your sweet presence,
thus brooding over my own troubles, whilst your loving
heart has a graver burden — God help me! — than it can
possibly bear. Listen, my beloved, for I don't know how
many minutes longer they intend to give us, and I have
not yet spoken to you about Armand — "

" Armand I " she cried.

A twinge of remorse had gripped her. For fully ten
minutes now she had relegated all thoughts of her brother
to a distant cell of her memory.

" We have no news of Armand," she said. " Sir An-
drew has searched all the prison registers. Oh! were not
my heart atrophied by all that it has endured this past sen-
night it would feel a final throb of agonising pain at every
thought of Armand."

A curious look, which even her loving eyes failed to
interpret, passed like a shadow over her husband's face.
But the shadow lifted in a moment, and it was with a
reassuring smile that he said to her :

"Dear heart! Armand is comparatively safe for the
moment. Tell Ffoulkes not to search the prison registers
for him, rather to seek out Mademoiselle Lange. She will
know where to find Armand."

"Jeanne Lange! " she exclaimed with a world of bitter-
ness in the tone of her voice, " the girl whom Armand
loved, it seems, with a passion greater than his loyalty.
Oh I Sir Andrew tried to disguise my brother's folly, but

874 ELDORADO

I guessed what he did not choose to tell me. It was his
disobedience, his want of trust, that brought this unspeak-
able misery on us all."

" Do not blame him overmuch, dear heart Armand was
in love, and love excuses every sin committed in its name.
Jeanne Lange was arrested and Armand lost his reason
temporarily. The very day on which I rescued the Dauphin
from the Temple I had the good fortune to drag the little
lady out of prison. I had given my promise to Armand
that she should be safe, and I kept my word. But this
Armand did not know — or else — "

He checked himself abruptly, and once more that strange,
enigmatical look crept into his eyes.

" I took Jeanne Lange to a place of comparative safety,"
he said after a slight pause, " but since then she has been
set entirely free."

"Free?"

" Yes. Chauvelin himself brought me the news," he
replied with a quick, mirthless laugh, wholly unlike his
usual light-hearted gaiety. " He had to ask me where to
find Jeanne, for I alone knew where she was. As for
Armand, they'll" not worry about him whilst I am here.
Another reason why I must bide a while longer. But in
the meanwhile, dear, I pray you find Mademoiselle Lange ;
she lives at No. 5 Square du Roule. Through her I know
that you can get to see Armand. This second letter," he
added, pressing a smaller packet into her hand, " is for
him. Give it to him, dear heart ; it will, I hope, tend to
cheer him. I fear me the poor lad frets; yet he only
sinned because he loved, and to me he will always be your
brother — the man who held your affection for all the
years before I came into your life. Give him this letter,
dear; they are my instructions to him, as the others are for

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 275

Ffoulkes; but tell him to read them when he is ail alone.
You will do that, dear heart, will you not ? "

" Yes, Percy," she said simply. " I promise."

Great joy, and the expression o? intense relief, lit up
his face, whilst his eyes spoke the gratitude which he felt.

" Then there is one thing more," he said. " There are
others in this cruel city, dear heart, who have trusted me,
and whom I must not fail — Marie de Marmontel and her
brother, faithful servants of the late queen; they were on
the eve of arrest when I succeeded in getting them to a
place of comparative safety; and there are others there, too
— all of these poor victims have trusted me implicitly.
They are waiting for me there, trusting in my promise
to convey them safely to England. Sweetheart, you must
redeem my promise to them. You will? — you will?
Promise me that you will — "

" I promise, Percy," she said once more.

" Then go, dear, to-morrow, in the late afternoon, to
No. 98, Rue de Charonne. It is a narrow house at the
extreme end of that long street which abuts on the fortifi-
cations. The lower part of the house is occupied by a
dealer in rags and old clothes. He and his wife and family
are wretchedly poor, but they are kind, good souls, and for
a consideration and a minimum of risk to themselves they
will always render service to the English milors, whom they
believe to be a band of inveterate smugglers. Ffoulkes
and all the others know these people and know the house;
Armand by the same token knows it too. Marie de Mar-
montel and her brother are there, and several others; the
old Comte de Lezardiere, the AbW de Firmont ; their names
spell suffering, loyalty, and hopelessness. I was lucky
enough to convey them safely to that hidden shelter. They
trust me implicitly, dear heart. They are waiting for me

«76 ELDORADO

there, trusting in my promise to them. Dear heart, you
will go, will you not?"

" Yes, Percy," she replied. " I will go ; I have prom-
ised."

" Foulkes has some certificates of safety by him, and
the old clothes dealer will supply the necessary disguises;
he has a covered cart which he uses for his business, and
which you can borrow from him. Ffoulkes will drive the
little party to Achard's farm in St. Germain, where other
members of the League should be in waiting for the final
journey to England. Ffoulkes will know how to arrange
for everything; he was always my most able lieutenant.
Once everything is organised he can appoint Hastings to
lead the party. But you, dear heart, must do as you wish.
Achard's farm would be a safe retreat for you and for
Ffoulkes if ... I know — I know, dear," he added with
infinite tenderness. " See! I do not even suggest that you
should leave me. Ffoulkes will be with you, and I know
that neither he nor you would go even if I commanded.
Either Achard's farm, or even the house in the Rue de
Charonne, would be quite safe for you, dear, under
Ffoulkes's protection, until the time when I myself can
carry you back — you, my precious burden — to England
in mine own arms, or until . . . Hush-sh-sh, dear heart,"
he entreated, smothering with a passionate kiss the low
moan of pain which had escaped her lips ; " it is all in God's
hands now ; I am in a tight corner — tighter than ever I
have been before; but I am not dead yet, and those brutes
have not yet paid the full price for my life. Tell me, dear
heart, that you have understood — that you will do all that
I asked. Tell me again, my dear, dear love ; it is the very
essence of life to hear your sweet lips murmur this promise
now."

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 877

And for the third time she reiterated firmly :

" I have understood every word that you said to me,
Percy, and I promise on your precious life to do what you
ask."

He sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction, and even at that
moment there came from the guard-room beyond the sound
of a harsh voice, saying peremptorily :

" That half-hour is nearly over, sergeant ; 'tis time you
interfered."

" Three minutes more, citizen," was the curt reply.

" Three minutes, you devils," murmured Blakeney be-
tween set teeth, whilst a sudden light which even Marguer-
ite's keen gaze failed to interpret leapt into his eyes. Then
he pressed the third letter into her hand.

Once more his close, intent gaze compelled hers; their
faces were close one to the other, so near to him did he
draw her, so tightly did he hold her to him. The paper
was in her hand and his fingers were pressed firmly on
hers.

" Put this in your kerchief, my beloved," he whispered.
"Let it rest on your exquisite bosom where I so love to
pillow my head. Keep it there until the last hour when it
seems to you that nothing more can come between me and
shame. . . . Hush-sh-sh, dear," he added with passionate
tenderness, checking the hot protest that at the word
" shame " had sprung to her lips, " I cannot explain more
fully now. I do not know what may happen. I am only
a man, and who knows what subtle devilry those brutes
might not devise for bringing the untamed adventurer to
his knees. For the next ten days the Dauphin will be on
the high roads of France, on his way to safety. Every
stage of his journey will be known to me. I can from be-
tween these four walls follow him and his escort step by

278 ELDORADO

step. Well, dear, I am but a man, already brought to
shameful weakness by mere physical discomfort — the want
of sleep — such a trifle after all; but in case my reason
tottered — God knows what I might do — then give this
packet to Ffoulkes — it contains my final instructions —
and he will know how to act. Promise me, dear heart,
that you will not open the packet unless — unless mine own
dishonour seems to you imminent — unless I have yielded
to these brutes in this prison, and sent Ffoulkes or one of
the others orders to exchange the Dauphin's life for mine ;
then, when mine own handwriting hath proclaimed me a
coward, then and then only, give this packet to Ffoulkes.
Promise me that, and also that when you and he have
mastered its contents you will act exactly as I have com-
manded. Promise me that, dear, in your own sweet name,
which may God bless, and in that of Ffoulkes, our loyal
friend."

Through the sobs that well-nigh choked her she mur-
mured the promise he desired.

His voice had grown hoarser and more spent with the
inevitable reaction after the long and sustained effort, but
the vigour of the spirit was untouched, the fervour, the
enthusiasm.

" Dear heart," he murmured, " do not look on me with
those dear, scared eyes of yours. If there is aught that
puzzles you in what I said, try and trust me a while longer.
Remember, I must save the Dauphin at all costs; .nine
honour is bound with his safety. What happens to me
after that matters but little, yet I wish to live for your dear
sake."

He drew a long breath which had naught of weariness
in it. The haggard look had completely vanished from his
face, the eyes were lighted up from within, the very soul

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 279

of reckless daring and immortal gaiety illumined his whole
personality.

" Do not look so sad, little woman," he said with a
strange and sudden recrudescence of power; " those d— — d
murderers have not got me yet — even now."

Then he went down like a log.

The effort had been too prolonged — weakened nature
reasserted her rights — and he lost consciousness. Mar-
guerite, helpless and almost distraught with grief, had yet
the strength of mind not to call for assistance. She pil-
lowed the loved one's head upon her breast, she kissed the
dear, tired eyes, the poor throbbing temples. The unutter-
able pathos of seeing this man, who was always the person-
ification of extreme vitality, energy, and boundless endur-
ance and pluck, lying thus helpless, like a tired child, in
her arms, was perhaps the saddest moment of this day of
sorrow. But in her trust she never wavered for one in-
stant. Much that he had said had puzzled her; but the
word " shame " coming from his own lips as a comment
on himself never caused her the slightest pang of fear.
She had quickly hidden the tiny packet in her kerchief.
She would act point by point exactly as he had ordered her
to do., and she knew that Ffoulkes would never waver
either.

Her heart ached well-nigh to breaking point. That
which she could not understand had increased her anguish
tenfold. If she could only have given way to tears she
could have borne this final agony more easily. But the
solace of tears was not for her; when those loved eyes once
more opened to consciousness they should see hers glowing
with courage and determination.

There had been silence for a few minutes in the little cell.
The soldiery outside, inured to their hideous duty, thought

280 ELDORADO

no doubt that the time had come for them to interfere.

The iron bar was raised and thrown back with a loud
crash, the butt-ends of muskets were grounded against the
floor, and two soldiers made noisy irruption into the cell.

"Hold, citizen! Wake up," shouted one of the men;
" you have not told us yet what you have done with Capet ! "

Marguerite uttered a cry of horror. Instinctively her
arms were interposed between the unconscious man and
these inhuman creatures, with a beautiful gesture of pro-
tecting motherhood.

" He has fainted," she said, her voice quivering with in-
dignation. " My God ! are you devils that you have not
one spark of manhood in you? "

The men shrugged their shoulders, and both laughed
brutally. They had seen worse sights than these, since they
served a Republic that ruled by bloodshed and by terror.
They were own brothers in callousness and cruelty to those
men who on this self-same spot a few months ago had
watched the daily agony of a martyred Queen, or to those
who had rushed into the Abbaye prison on that awful day
in September, and at a word from their infamous leaders
had put eighty defenceless prisoners — men, women, and
children — to the sword.

" Tell him to say what he has done with Capet," said
one of the soldiers now, and this rough command was ac-
companied with a coarse jest that sent the blood flaring
up into Marguerite's pale cheeks.

The brutal laugh, the coarse words which accompanied
it, the insult flung at Marguerite, had penetrated to Blake-
ney's slowly returning consciousness. With sudden
strength, that appeared almost supernatural, he jumped to
his feet, and before any of the others could interfere he

FOR THE SAKE OF THAT INNOCENT 281

had with clenched 6st struck the soldier a full blow on the
mouth.

The man staggered back with a curse, the other shouted
for help; in a moment the narrow place swarmed with
soldiers ; Marguerite was roughly torn away from the pris-
oner's side, and thrust into the far corner of the cell, from
where she only saw a confused mass of blue coats and white
belts, and — towering for one brief moment above what
seemed to her fevered fancy like a veritable sea of heads
— the pale face of her husband, with wide dilated eyes
searching the gloom for hers.

" Remember I " he shouted, and his voice for that brief
moment rang out clear and sharp above the din.

Then he disappeared behind the wall of glistening bay-
onets, of blue coats and uplifted arms; mercifully for her
she remembered nothing more very clearly. She felt her-
self being dragged out of the cell, the iron bar being thrust
down behind her with a loud clang. Then in a vague,
dreamy state of semi-unconsciousness she saw the heavy
bolts being drawn back from the outer door, heard the
grating of the key in the monumental lock, and the next
moment a breath of fresh air brought the sensation of re-
newed life into her.

CHAPTER XXX

AFTERWARDS

" I am sony, Lady Blakency," said a harsh, dry voice
close to her ; " the incident at the end of your visit was
none of our making, remember."

She turned away, sickened with horror at thought of
contact with this wretch. She had heard the heavy oaken
door swing to behind her on its ponderous hinges, and the
key once again turn in the lock. She felt as if she had
suddenly been thrust into a coffin, and that clods of earth
were being thrown upon her breast, oppressing her heart
so that she could not breathe.

Had she looked for the last time on the man whom she
loved beyond everything else on earth, whom she wor-
shipped more ardently day by day? Was she even now
carrying within the folds of her kerchief a message from
a dying man to his comrades?

Mechanically she followed Chauvelin down the corridor
and along the passages which she had traversed a brief
half-hour ago. From some distant church tower a clock
tolled the hour of ten. It had then really only been little
more than thirty brief minutes since first she had entered this
grim building, which seemed less stony than the monsters
who held authority within it ; to her it seemed that centuries
had gone over her head during that time. She felt like an
old woman, unable to straighten her back or to steady her
limbs; she could only dimly see some few paces ahead the
trim figure of Chauvelin walking with measured steps, his

AFTERWARDS S8S

hands held behind his back, his head thrown up with what
looked like triumphant defiance.

At the door of the cubicle where she had been forced
to submit to the indignity of being searched by a wardress,
the latter was now standing, waiting with characteristic
stolidity. In her hand she held the steel files, the dagger
and the purse which, as Marguerite passed, she held out
to her.

" Your property, citizeness," she said placidly.

She emptied the purse into her own hand, and solemnly
counted out the twenty pieces of gold. She was about to
replace them all into the purse, when Marguerite pressed
one of them back into her wrinkled hand.

" Nineteen will be enough, citizeness," she said ; " keep
one for yourself, not only for me, but for all the poor
women who come here with their heart full of hope, and
go hence with it full of despair."

The woman turned calm, lack-lustre eyes on her, and
silently pocketed the gold piece with a grudgingly muttered
word of thanks.

Chauvelin during this brief interlude, had walked
thoughtlessly on ahead. Marguerite, peering down the
length of the narrow corridor, spied his sable-clad figure
some hundred metres further on as it crossed the dim circle
of light thrown by one of the lamps.

She was about to follow, when it seemed to her as if
some one was moving in the darkness close beside her. The
wardress was even now in the act of closing the door of
her cubicle, and there were a couple of soldiers who were
disappearing from view round one end of the passage,
whilst Chauvelin's retreating form was lost in the gloom at
the other.

There was no light close to where she herself was stand-

284 ELDORADO

ing, and the blackness around her was as impenetrable as
a veil ; the sound of a human creature moving and breathing
close to her in this intense darkness acted weirdly on her
overwrought nerves.

" Qui va l&T" she called*

There was a more distinct movement among the shadows
this time, as of a swift tread on the flagstones of the corri-
dor. All else was silent round, and now she could plainly
hear those footsteps running rapidly down the passage away
from her. She strained her eyes to see more clearly, and
anon in one of the dim circles of light on ahead she spied
a man's figure — slender and darkly clad — walking quickly
yet furtively like one pursued. As he crossed the light the
man turned to look back. It was her brother Armand.

Her first instinct was to call to him ; the second checked
that call upon her lips.

Percy had said that Armand was in no danger ; then why
should he be sneaking along the dark corridors of this awful
house of Justice if he was free and safe?

Certainly, even at a distance, her brother's movements
suggested to Marguerite that he was in danger of being
seen. He cowered in the darkness, tried to avoid the circles
of light thrown by the lamps in the passage. At all costs
Marguerite felt that she must warn him that the way he
was going now would lead him straight into Chauvelin's
arms, and she longed to let him know that she was close
by.

Feeling sure that he would recognise her voice, she made
pretence to turn back to the cubicle through the door of
which the wardress had already disappeared, and called
out as loudly as she dared:

" Good-night, citizeness! "

But Armand — who surely must have heard — did not

AFTERWARDS 285

pause at the sound. Rather was he walking on now more
rapidly than before. In less than a minute he would be
reaching the spot where Chauvelin stood waiting for Mar-
guerite. That end of the corridor, however, received no
light from any of the lamps; strive how she might, Mar-
guerite could see nothing now either of Chauvelin or of
Armand.

Blindly, instinctively, she ran forward, thinking only to
reach Armand, and to warn him to turn back before it
was too late; before he found himself face to face with
the most bitter enemy he and his nearest and dearest had
ever had. But as she at last came to a halt at the end of
the corridor, panting with the exertion of running and the
fear for Armand, she almost fell up against Chauvelin,
who was standing there alone and imperturbable, seemingly
having waited patiently for her. She could only dimly
distinguish his face, the sharp features and thin cruel mouth,
but she felt — more than she actually saw — his cold
steely eyes fixed with a strange expression of mockery upon
her.

But of Armand there was no sign, and she — poor soul 1
— had difficulty in not betraying the anxiety which she
felt for her brother. Had the flagstones swallowed him
up? A door on the right was the only one that gave
on the corridor at this point; it led to the concierge's lodge,
and thence out into the courtyard. Had Chauvelin been
dreaming, sleeping with his eyes open, whilst he stood
waiting for her, and had Armand succeeded in slipping past
him under cover of the darkness and through that door
to safety that lay beyond these prison walls?

Marguerite, miserably agitated, not knowing what to
think, looked somewhat wild-eyed on Chauvelin ; he smiled,
that inscrutable, mirthless smile of his, and said blandly :

286 ELDORADO

"Is there aught else that I can do for you, citizeness?
This is your nearest way out No doubt Sir Andrew will
be waiting to escort you home."

Then as she — not daring either to reply or to question
— walked straight up to the door, he hurried forward,
prepared to open it for her. But before he did so he turned
to her once again :

" I trust that your visit has pleased you, Lady Blakeney,"
he said suavely. " At what hour do you desire to repeat it
to-morrow ? "

" To-morrow?" she reiterated in a vague, absent man-
ner, for she was still dazed with the strange incident of
Armand's appearance and his flight.

" Yes. You would like to see Sir Percy again to-mor-
row, would you not? I myself would gladly pay him a
visit from time to time, but he does not care for my com-
pany. My colleague, citizen Heron, on the other hand,
calls on him four times in every twenty- four hours; he
does so a few moments before the changing of the guard,
and stays chatting with Sir Percy until after the guard is
changed, when he inspects the men and satisfies himself
that no traitor has crept in among them. All the men are
personally known to him, you see. These hours are at
five in the morning and again at eleven, and then again at
five and eleven in the evening. My friend Heron, as you
see, is zealous and assiduous, and, strangely enough, Sir
Percy does not seem to view his visit with any displeasure.
Now at any other hour of the day, Lady Blakeney, I pray
you command me and I will arrange that citizen Heron
grant you a second interview with the prisoner."

Marguerite had only listened to Chauvelin's lengthy
speech with half an ear; her thoughts still dwelt on the past
Mlf-hour with its bitter joy and its agonising pain; and

AFTERWARDS 287

fighting through her thoughts of Percy there was the recol-
lection of Armand which so disquieted her. But though
she had only vaguely listened to what Chauvelin was say-
ing, she caught the drift of it.

Madly she longed to accept his suggestion. The very
thought of seeing Percy on the morrow was solace to her
aching heart; it could feed on hope to-night instead of on
its own bitter pain. But even during this brief moment
of hesitancy, and while her whole being cried out for this
joy that her enemy was holding out to her, even then in
the gloom ahead of her she seemed to see a vision of a pale
face raised above a crowd of swaying heads, and of the
eyes of the dreamer searching for her own, whilst the last
sublime cry of perfect self-devotion once more echoed in
her ear:

" Remember ! "

The promise which she had given him, that would she
fulfil. The burden which he had laid on her shoulders she
would try to bear as heroically as he was bearing his own.
Aye, even at the cost of the supreme sorrow of never rest-
ing again in the haven of his arms.

But in spite of sorrow, in spite of anguish so terrible
that she could not imagine Death itself to have a more
cruel sting, she wished above all to safeguard that final, at-
tenuated thread of hope which was wound round the packet
that lay hidden on her breast.

She wanted, above all, not to arouse Chauvelin's sus-
picions by markedly refusing to visit the prisoner again —
suspicions that might lead to her being searched once more
and the precious packet filched from her. Therefore she
said to him earnestly now:

" I thank you, citizen, for your solicitude on my behalf,
but you will understand, I think, that my visit to the pris-

888 ELDORADO

oner has been almost more than I could bear. I cannot
tell you at this moment whether to-morrow I should be
in a fit state to repeat it"

" As you please," he replied urbanely. " But I pray you
to remember one thing, and that is — "

He paused a moment while his restless eyes wandered
rapidly over her face, trying, as it were, to get at the soul
of this woman, at her innermost thoughts, which he felt
were hidden from him.

"Yes, citizen," she said quietly; " what is it that I am
to remember?"

" That it rests with you, Lady Blakeney, to put an end
to the present situation."

"How?"

" Surely you can persuade Sir Percy's friends not to
leave their chief in durance vile. They themselves could
put an end to his troubles to-morrow."

"By giving up the Dauphin to you, you mean?" she
retorted coldly.

" Precisely."

" And you hoped — you still hope that by placing before
me the picture of your own fiendish cruelty against my
husband you will induce me to act the part of a traitor
towards him and a coward before his followers? "

" Oh I " he said deprecatingly, " the cruelty now is no
longer mine. Sir Percy's release is in your hands, Lady
Blakeney — in that of his followers. I should only be too
willing to end the present intolerable situation. You and
your friends are applying the last turn of the thumbscrew,
not I—"

She smothered the cry of horror that had risen to her
lips. The man's cold-blooded sophistry was threatening
to make a breach in her armour of self-control.

AFTERWARDS 289

She would no longer trust herself to speak, but made a
quick movement towards the door.

He shrugged his shoulders as if the matter were now
entirely out of his control. Then he opened the door for
her to pass out, and as her skirts brushed against him he
bowed with studied deference, murmuring a cordial " Good-
night ! "

" And remember, Lady Blakeney," he added politely,
" that should you at any time desire to communicate with
me at my rooms, 19, Rue Dupuy, I hold myself entirely
at your service."

Then as her tall, graceful figure disappeared in the out-
side gloom he passed his thin hand over his mouth as if to
wipe away the last lingering signs of triumphant irony :

" The second visit will work wonders, I think, my fine
lady," he murmured under his breath.

CHAPTER XXXI

AN INTERLUDE

It was close on midnight now, and still they sat opposite
one another, he the friend and she the wife, talking over
that brief half-hour that had meant an eternity to her.

Marguerite had tried to tell Sir Andrew everything; bit-
ter as it was to put into actual words the pathos and misery
which she had witnessed, yet she would hide nothing from
the devoted comrade whom she knew Percy would trust
absolutely. To him she repeated every word that Percy
had uttered, described every inflection of his voice, those
enigmatical phrases which she had not understood, and
together they cheated one another into the belief that hope
lingered somewhere hidden in those words.

" I am not going to despair, Lady Blakeney," said Sir
Andrew firmly ; " and, moreover, we are not going to dis-
obey. I would stake my life that even now Blakeney has
some scheme in his mind which is embodied in the various
letters which he has given you, and which — Heaven help
us in that case ! — we might thwart by disobedience. To-
morrow in the late afternoon I will escort you to the Rue
de Charonne. It is a house that we all know well, and
which Armand, of course, knows too. I had already in-
quired there two days ago to ascertain whether by chance
St. Just was not in hiding there, but Lucas, the landlord
and old-clothes dealer, knew nothing about him."

Marguerite told him about her swift vision of Armand
in the dark corridor of the house of Justice.

AN INTERLUDE 291

" Can you understand it, Sir Andrew ? " she asked, fixing
her deep, luminous eyes inquiringly upon him.

" No, I cannot," he said, after an almost inperceptible
moment of hesitancy ; " but we shall see him to-morrow.
I have no doubt that Mademoiselle Lange will know where
to find him; and now that we know where she is, all our
anxiety about him, at any rate, should soon be at an end."

He rose and made some allusion to the lateness of the
hour. Somehow it seemed to her that her devoted friend
was trying to hide his innermost thoughts from her. She
watched him with an anxious, intent gaze.

" Can you understand it all, Sir Andrew? " she reiterated
with a pathetic note of appeal.

" No, no 1 " he said firmly. " On my soul, Lady
Blakeney, I know no more of Armand than you do your-
self. But I am sure that Percy is right. The boy frets
because remorse must have assailed him by now. Had he
but obeyed implicitly that day, as we all did — "

But he could not frame the whole terrible proposition in
words. Bitterly as he himself felt on the subject of
Armand, he would not add yet another burden to this de-
voted woman's heavy load of misery.

" It was Fate, Lady Blakeney," he said after a while.
" Fate! a damnable fate which did it all. Great God! to
think of Blakeney in the hands of those brutes seems so
horrible that at times I feel as if the whole thing were a
nightmare, and that the next moment we shall both wake
hearing his merry voice echoing through this room."

He tried to cheer her with words of hope that he knew
were but chimeras. A heavy weight of despondency lay
on his heart. The letter from his chief was hidden against
his breast; he would study it anon in the privacy of his own
apartment so as to commit every word to memory that re-

292 ELDORADO

lated to the measures for the ultimate safety of the child-
King. After that it would have to be destroyed, lest it
fell into inimical hands.

Soon he bade Marguerite good-night She was tired
out, body and soul, and he — her faithful friend — vaguely
wondered how long she would be able to withstand the
strain of so much sorrow, such unspeakable misery.

When at last she was alone Marguerite made brave
efforts to compose her nerves so as to obtain a certain
modicum of sleep this night But, strive how she might,
sleep would not come. How could it, when before her
wearied brain there rose constantly that awful vision of
Percy in the long, narrow cell, with weary head bent over
his arm, and those friends shouting persistently in his ear:

"Wake up, citizen! Tell us, where is Capet?"

The fear obsessed her that his mind might give way;
for the mental agony of such intense weariness must be
well-nigh impossible to bear. In the dark, as she sat hour
after hour at the open window, looking out in the direc-
tion where through the veil of snow the grey walls of the
Chatelet prison towered silent and grim, she seemed to see
his pale, drawn face with almost appalling reality; she
could see every line of it and could study it with the in-
tensity born of a terrible fear.

How long would the ghostly glimmer of merriment still
linger in the eyes? When would the hoarse, mirthless
laugh rise to the lips, that awful laugh that proclaims mad-
ness? Oh I she could have screamed now with the awful-
ness of this haunting terror. Ghouls seemed to be mock-
ing her out of the darkness, every flake of snow that fell
silently on the window-sill became a grinning face that
taunted and derided ; every cry in the silence of the night,

AN INTERLUDE 893

every footstep on the quay below turned to hideous jeers
hurled at her by tormenting fiends.

She closed the window quickly, for she feared that she
would go mad. For an hour after that she walked up
and down the room making violent efforts to control her
nerves, to find a glimmer of that courage which she prom-
ised Percy that she would have.

CHAPTER XXXII

The morning found her fagged out, but more calm.
Later on she managed to drink some coffee, and having
washed and dressed, she prepared to go out

Sir Andrew appeared in time to ascertain her wishes.

" I promised Percy to go to the Rue de Charonne in the
late afternoon," she said. " I have some hours to spare,
and mean to employ them in trying to find speech with
Mademoiselle Lange."

" Btakeney has told you where she lives? "

" Yes. In the Square du Roule. I know it well. I
can be there in half an hour."

He, of course, begged to be allowed to accompany her,
and anon they were walking together quickly up toward the
Faubourg St. Honored The snow had ceased falling, but
it was still very cold, but neither Marguerite nor Sir An-
drew were conscious of the temperature or of any outward
signs around them. They walked on silently until they
reached the torn-down gates of the Square du Roule; there
Sir Andrew parted from Marguerite after having ap-
pointed to meet her an hour later at a small eating-house
he knew of where they could have some food together,
before starting on their long expedition to the Rue de
Charonne.

Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in
by worthy Madame Belhomme, into the quaint and pretty
drawing-room with its soft-toned hangings and old-world

SISTERS 295

air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange was sitting there,
in a capacious armchair, which encircled her delicate figure
with its frame-work of dull old gold.

She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was an-
nounced, for an open book lay on a table beside her; but
it seemed to the visitor that mayhap the young girl's
thoughts had played truant from her work, for her pose
was listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave
trouble upon the childlike face.

She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at
the unexpected visit, and somewhat awed at the appearance
of this beautiful woman with the sad look in her eyes.

" I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle," said Lady
Blakeney as soon as the door had once more closed on
Madame Belhomme, and she found herself alone with the
young girl. " This visit at such an early hour must seem
to you an intrusion. But I am Marguerite St Just,
and — "

Her smile and outstretched hand completed the sentence.

" St. Just ! " exclaimed Jeanne.

" Yes. Armand's sister I "

A swift blush rushed to the girl's pale cheeks; her brown
eyes expressed unadulterated joy. Marguerite, who was
studying her closely, was conscious that her poor aching
heart went out to this exquisite child, the far-off innocent
cause of so much misery.

Jeanne, a little shy, a little confused and nervous in her
movements, was pulling a chair close to the fire, begging
Marguerite to sit. Her words came out all the while in
short jerky sentences, and from time to time she stole swift
shy glances at Armand's sister.

" You will forgive me, mademoiselle," said Marguerite,
whose simple and calm manner quickly tended to soothe

196 ELDORADO

Jeanne Lange's confusion ; " but I was so anxious about
my brother — I do not know where to find him."

" And so you came to me, madame? "

"Was I wrong?"

"Oh, no! But what made you think that — that I
would know ? "

" I guessed," said Marguerite with a smile.

" You had heard about me then ? "

"Oh, yes!"

"Through whom? Did Armand tell you about
me?"

" No, alas ! I have not seen him this past fortnight,
since you, mademoiselle, came into his life; but many of
Armand's friends are in Paris just now ; one of them knew,
and he told me."

The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the
girl's face, even down to her graceful neck. She waited
to see Marguerite comfortably installed in an armchair,
then she resumed shyly:

" And it was Armand who told me all about you. He
loves you so dearly."

" Armand and I were very young children when we
lost our parents," said Marguerite softly, " and we were
all in all to each other then. And until I married he was
the man I loved best in all the world."

" He told me you were married — to an Englishman."

"Yes?"

" He loves England too. At first he always talked of
my going there with him as his wife, and of the happiness
we should find there together."

" Why do you say ' at first '? "

" He talks less about England now."

" Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and

SISTERS S97

that you understand each other with regard to the future."

" Perhaps."

Jeanne sat opposite to Marguerite on a low stool by the
fire. Her elbows were resting on her knees, and her face
just now was half-hidden by the wealth of her brown curls.
She looked exquisitely pretty sitting like this, with just
the suggestion of sadness in the listless pose. Marguerite
had come here to-day prepared to hate this young girl, who
in a few brief days had stolen not only Armand's heart,
but his allegiance to his chief, and his trust in him. Since
last night, when she had seen her brother sneak silently
past her like a thief in the night, she had nurtured thoughts
of ill-will and anger against Jeanne.

But hatred and anger had melted at the sight of this
child. Marguerite, with the perfect understanding bom
of love itself, had soon realised the charm which a woman
like Mademoiselle Lange must of necessity exercise over
a chivalrous, enthusiastic nature like Armand's. The sense
of protection — the strongest perhaps that exists in a good
man's heart — would draw him irresistibly to this beautiful
child, with the great, appealing eyes, and the look of pathos
that pervaded the entire face. Marguerite, looking in
silence on the dainty picture before her, found it in her
heart to forgive Armand for disobeying his chief when
those eyes beckoned to him in a contrary direction.

How could he, how could any chivalrous man endure
the thought of this delicate, fresh flower lying crushed
and drooping in the hands of monsters who respected neither
courage nor purity? And Armand had been more than
human, or mayhap less, if he had indeed consented to leave
the fate of the girl whom he had sworn to love and pro-
tect in other hands than his own.

It seemed almost as if Jeanne was conscious of the fixity

•

298 ELDORADO

of Marguerite's gaze, for though she did not turn to look
at her, the flush gradually deepened in her cheeks.

" Mademoiselle Lange," said Marguerite gently, " do you
not fee! that you can trust me?"

She held out her two hands to the girl, and Jeanne
slowly turned to her. The next moment she was kneeling
at Marguerite's feet, and kissing the beautiful kind hands
that had been stretched out to her with such sisterly love.

" Indeed, indeed, I do trust you," she said, and looked
with tear-dimmed eyes in the pale face above her. " I
have longed for some one in whom I could confide. I have
been so lonely lately, and Armand — "

With an impatient little gesture she brushed away the
tears which had gathered in her eyes.

"What has Armand been doing?" asked Marguerite
with an encouraging smile.

"Oh, nothing to grieve me!" replied the young girl
eagerly, " for he is kind and good, and chivalrous and
noble. Oh, I love him with all my heart! I loved him
from the moment that I set eyes on him, and then he came
to see me — perhaps you know ! And he talked so beauti-
ful about England, and so nobly about his leader the Scar-
let Pimpernel — have you heard of him ? "

" Yes," said Marguerite, smiling. " I have heard of
him."

" It was that day that citizen Heron came with his
soldiers I Oh ! you do not know citizen Heron. He is the
most cfue! man in France. In Paris he is hated by every
one, and no one is safe from his spies. He came to arrest
Armand, but I was able to fool him and to save Armand.
And after that," she added with charming naivete, " I felt
as if, having saved Armand's life, he belonged to me —
and his love for me had made me his."

SISTERS S99

"Then I was arrested," she continued after a slight
pause, and at the recollection of what she had endured then
her fresh voice still trembled with horror.

" They dragged me to prison, and I spent two days in
a dark cell, where — "

She hid her face in her hands, whilst a few sobs shook
her whole frame; then she resumed more calmly:

" I had seen nothing of Armand. I wondered where he
was, and I knew that he would be eating out his heart with
anxiety for me. But God was watching over me. At
first I was transferred to the Temple prison, and there a
kind creature — a sort of man-of-all work in the prison —
took compassion on me. I do not know how he contrived
it, but one morning very early he brought me some filthy
old rags which he told me to put on quickly, and when I
had done that he bade me follow him. Ohl he was a
very dirty, wretched man himself, but he must have had
a kind heart. He took me by the hand and made me carry
his broom and brushes. Nobody took much notice of us,
the dawn was only just breaking, and the passages were
very dark and deserted; only once some soldiers began to
chaff him about me: ' C'est ma Ulle- — quoit' he said
roughly. I very nearly laughed then, only I had the good
sense to restrain myself, for I knew that my freedom, and
perhaps my life, depended on my not betraying myself.
My grimy, tattered guide took me with him right through
the interminable corridors of that awful building, whilst I
prayed fervently to God for him and for myself. We
got out by one of the service stairs and exit, and then he
dragged me through some narrow streets until we came
to a corner where a covered cart stood waiting. My kind
friend told me to get into the cart, and then he bade the
driver on the box take me straight to a house in the Rue

300 ELDORADO

St. Germain I'Auxerrois. Oh I I was infinitely grateful to
trie poor creature who had helped me to get out of that
awful prison, and I would gladly have given him some
money, for I am sure he was very poor ; but I had none by
me. He told me that I should be quite safe in the house
in the Rue St. Germain I'Auxerrois, and begged me to wait
there patiently for a few days until I heard from one who
had my welfare at heart, and who would further arrange
for my safety."

Marguerite had listened silently to this narrative so
naively told by this child, who obviously had no idea to
whom she owed her freedom and her life. While the girl
talked, her mind could follow with unspeakable pride and
happiness . every phase of that scene in the early dawn,
when that mysterious, ragged man -of-all- work, unbeknown
even to the woman whom he was saving, risked his own
noble life for the sake of her whom his friend and comrade
loved.

" And did you never see again the kind man to whom
you owe your life?" she asked.

"No!" replied Jeanne. "I never saw him since; but
when I arrived at the Rue St. Germain I'Auxerrois I was
told by the good people who took charge of me that the
ragged man-of-all-work had been none other than the mys-
terious Englishman whom Armand reveres, he whom they
call the Scarlet Pimpernel."

" But you did not stay very long in the Rue St. Germain
I'Auxerrois, did you?"

" No. Only three days. The third day I received a com~
muniqui from the Committee of General Security, together
with an unconditional certificate of safety. It meant that
I was free — quite free. Oh I I could scarcely believe it.
I laughed and I cried until the people in the house thought

SISTERS SOI

that I had gone mad. The past few days had been such
a horrible nightmare."

"And then you saw Armand again?"

" Yes. They told him that I was free. And he came
here to see me. He often comes; he will be here anon."

" But are ,you not afraid on his account and your own?
He is — he must be still — ' suspect ' ; a well-known ad-
herent of the Scarlet Pimpernel, he would be safer out of
Paris."

" Not oh, no I Armand is in no danger. He, too, has
an unconditional certificate of safety."

" An unconditional certificate of safety? " asked Mar-
guerite, whilst a deep frown of grave puzzlement appeared
between her brows. " What does that mean ? "

" It means that he is free to come and go as he likes ;
that neither he nor I have anything to fear from Heron
and his awful spies. Ohl but for that sad and careworn
look on Armand's face we could be so happy ; but he is so
unlike himself. He is Armand and yet another; his look
at times quite frightens me."

" Yet you know why he is so sad," said Marguerite in
a strange, toneless voice which she seemed quite unable to
control, for that tonelessness came from a terrible sense of
suffocation, of a feeling as if her heart-strings were being
gripped by huge, hard hands.

" Yes, I know," said Jeanne half hesitatingly, as if know-
ing, she was still unconvinced.

" His chief, his comrade, the friend of whom you speak,
the Scarlet Pimpernel, who risked his life in order to save
yours, mademoiselle, is a prisoner in the hands of those
that hate him."

Marguerite had spoken with sudden vehemence. There
was almost an appeal in her voice now, as if she were try-

302 ELDORADO

ing not to convince Jeanne only, but also herself, of some-
thing that was quite simple, quite straightforward, and
yet which appeared to be receding from her, an intangible
something, a spirit that was gradually yielding to a force
as yet unborn, to a phantom that had not yet emerged from
out chaos.

But Jeanne seemed unconscious of all this. Her mind
was absorbed in Armand, the man whom she loved in her
simple, whole-hearted way, and who had seemed so differ-
ent of late.

"Oh, yes!" she said with a deep, sad sigh, whilst the
ever-ready tears once more gathered in her eyes, " Armand
is very unhappy because of him. The Scarlet Pimpernel
was his friend ; Armand loved and revered him. Did you
know," added the girl, turning large, horror-filled eyes on
Marguerite, " that they want some information from him
about the Dauphin, and to force him to give it they —
they — "

" Yes, I know," said Marguerite.

" Can you wonder, then, that Armand is unhappy. Oh!
last night, after he went from me, I cried for hours, just
because he had looked so sad. He no longer talks of happy
England, of the cottage we were to have, and of the
Kentish orchards in May. He has not ceased to love me,
for at times his love seems so great that I tremble with a
delicious sense of fear. But oh ! his love for me no longer
makes him happy."

Her head had gradually sunk lower and lower on her
breast, her voice died down in a murmur broken by heart-
rending sighs. Every generous impulse in Marguerite's
noble nature prompted her to take that sorrowing child in
her arms, to comfort her if she could, to reassure her if she

SISTERS 303

had the power. But a strange icy feeling had gradually
invaded her heart, -even whilst she listened to the simple
unsophisticated talk of Jeanne Lange. Her hands felt
numb and clammy, and instinctively she withdrew away
from the near vicinity of the girl. She felt as if the room,
the furniture in it, even the window before her were dan-
cing a wild and curious dance, and that from everywhere
around strange whistling sounds reached her ears, which
caused her head to whirl and her brain to reel.

Jeanne had buried her head in her hands. She was cry-
ing — softly, almost humbly at first, as if half ashamed
of her grief; then, suddenly it seemed, as if she could not
contain herself any longer, a heavy sob escaped her throat
and shook her whole delicate frame with its violence. Sor-
row no longer would be gainsaid, it insisted on physical ex-
pression — that awful tearing of the heart-strings which
leaves the body numb and panting with pain.

In a moment Marguerite had forgotten; the dark and
shapeless phantom that had knocked at the gate of her
soul was relegated back into chaos. It ceased to be, it was
made to shrivel and to burn in the great seething cauldron
of womanly sympathy. What part this child had played
in the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged a noble-
hearted enthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence
the only outlet led to the guillotine, she — Marguerite
Blakeney — did not know ; what part Armand, her brother,
had played in it, that she would not dare to guess ; all that
she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled
with pain — a young, inexperienced soul that was having
its first tussle with the grim realities of life — and every
motherly instinct in Marguerite was aroused.

She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her

m

804 ELDORADO

knees, and then closer to her; she pillowed the grief-stricken
head against her shoulder, and murmured gentle, comfort-
ing words into the tiny ear.

" I have news for Armand," she whispered, " that will
comfort him, a message — a letter from his friend. You
will see, dear, that when Armand reads it he will become a
changed man; you see, Armand acted a little foolishly a
few days ago. His chief had given him orders which he
disregarded — he was so anxious about you — he should
have obeyed; and now, mayhap, he feels that his disobe-
dience may have been the — the innocent cause of much
misery to others ; that is, no doubt, the reason why he is so
sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him, you will
see."

" Do you really think so, madame ? " murmured Jeanne,
in whose tear-stained eyes the indomitable hopefulness
of youth was already striving to shine.

" I am sure of it," assented Marguerite.

And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The
phantom had entirely vanished. She would even, had he
dared to re-appear, have mocked and derided him for his
futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart to a
veritable hell of bitterness.

CHAPTER XXXIII

LITTLE MOTHER

The two women, both so young still, but each of them
with a mark of sorrow already idelibly graven in her heart,
were clinging to one another, bound together by the strong
bond of sympathy. And but for the sadness of it all it
were difficult to conjure up a more beautiful picture than
that which they presented as they stood side by side; Mar-
guerite, tall and stately as an exquisite lily, with the crown
of her ardent hair and the glory of her deep blue eyes, and
Jeanne Lange, dainty and delicate, with the brown curls
and the child-like droop of the soft, moist lips.

Thus Armand saw them when, a moment or two later,
he entered unannounced. He had pushed open the door
and looked on the two women silently for a second or two ;
on the girl whom he loved so dearly, for whose sake he
had committed the great, the unpardonable sin which would
send him forever henceforth, Cain-like, a wanderer on the
face of the earth; and the other, his sister, her whom a
Judas act would condemn to lonely sorrow and widowhood.

He could have cried out in an agony of remorse, and it
was the groan of acute soul anguish which escaped his lips
that drew Marguerite's attention to his presence.

Even though many things that Jeanne Lange had said
had prepared her for a change in her brother, she was im-
measurably shocked by his appearance. He had always
been slim and rather below the average in height, but now
his usually upright and trim figure seemed to have shrunken

806 ELDORADO

within itself; his clothes hung baggy on his shoulders, his
hands appeared waxen and emaciated, but the greatest
change was in his face, in the wide circles round the eyes,
that spoke of wakeful nights, in the hollow cheeks, and the
mouth that had wholly forgotten how to smile.

Percy after a week's misery immured in a dark and
miserable prison, deprived of food and rest, did not look
such a physical wreck as did Armand St. Just, who was
free.

Marguerite's heart reproached her for what she felt
had been neglect, callousness on her part Mutely, within
herself, she craved his forgiveness for the appearance of
that phantom which should never have come forth from
out that chaotic hell which had engendered it.

" Armand! " she cried.

And the loving arms that had guided his baby footsteps
long ago, the tender hands that had wiped his boyish tears,
were stretched out with unalterable love toward him.

" I have a message for you, dear," she said gently — "a
letter from him. Mademoiselle Jeanne allowed me to wait
here for you until you came."

Silently, like a little shy mouse, Jeanne had slipped out
of the room. Her pure love for Armand had ennobled
every one of her thoughts, and her innate kindliness and
refinement had already suggested that brother and sister
would wish to be alone. At the door she had turned and
met Armand's look. That look had satisfied her; she felt
that in it she had read the expression of his love, and to it
she had responded with a glance that spoke of hope for a
future meeting.

As soon as the door had closed on Jeanne Lange, Armand,
with an impulse that refused to be checked, threw himself
into his sister's arms. The present, with all its sorrows,

LITTLE MOTHER 307

its remorse and its shame, had sunk away; only the past
remained — the unforgettable past, when Marguerite was
"little mother" — the soother, the comforter, the healer,
the ever-willing receptacle wherein he had been wont to
pour the burden of his childish griefs, of his boyish esca-
pades.

Conscious that she could not know everything — not
yet, at any rate — he gave himself over to the rapture of
this pure embrace, the last time, mayhap, that those fond
arms would close round him in unmixed tenderness, the last
time that those fond lips would murmur words of affec-
tion and of comfort.

To-morrow those same lips would, perhaps, curse the
traitor, and the small hand be raised in wrath, pointing an
avenging finger on the Judas.

" Little mother," he whispered, babbling like a child, " it
is good to see you again."

" And I have brought you a message from Percy," she
said, " a letter which he begged me to give you as soon as
maybe."

" You have seen him? " he asked.

She nodded silently, unable to speak. Not now, not
when her nerves were strung to breaking pitch, would she
trust herself to speak of that awful yesterday. She groped
in the folds of her gown and took the packet which Percy
had given her for Armand. It felt quite bulky in her hand.

" There is quite a good deal there for you to read,
dear," she said. " Percy begged me to give you this, and
then to let you read it when you were alone."

She pressed the packet into his hand. Armand's face
was ashen pale. He clung to her with strange, nervous
tenacity; the paper which he held in one hand seemed to
sear his fingers as with a branding-iron.

SOS ELDORADO

" I will slip away now," she said, for strangely enough
since Percy's message had been in Armand's hands she was
once again conscious of that awful feeling of iciness round
her heart, a sense of numbness that paralysed her very
thoughts.

" You will make my excuses to Mademoiselle Lange,"
she said, trying to smile. " When you have read, you will
wish to see her alone."

Gently she disengaged herself from Armand's grasp and
made for the door. He appeared dazed, staring down at
that paper which was scorching his fingers. Only when her
hand was on the latch did he seem to realise that she was
going.

" Little mother," came involuntarily to his lips.

She came straight back to him and took both his wrists
in her small hands. She was taller than he, and his head
was slightly bent forward. Thus she towered over him,
loving but strong, her great, earnest eyes searching his soul.

" When shall I see you again, little mother? " he asked.

" Read your letter, dear," she replied, " and when you
have read it, if you care to impart its contents to me, come
to-night to my lodgings, Quai de la Ferraille, above the
saddler's shop. But if there is aught in it that you do not
wish me to know, then do not come; I shall understand.
Good-bye, dear."

She took his head between her two cold hands, and as
it was still bowed she placed a tender kiss, as of a long
farewell, upon his hair.

Then she went out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LETTER

Armand sat in the armchair in front of the fire. His
head rested against one hand ; in the other he held the let-
ter written by the friend whom he had betrayed.

Twice he had read it now, and already was every word
of that minute, clear writing graven upon the innermost
fibres of his body, upon the most secret cells of his brain.

Armand, I know. I knew even before Chauvelin came to
tell me, and stood there hoping to gloat over the soul-agony
of a man who finds that he has been betrayed by his dearest
friend. But that d d reprobate did not get that satisfac-
tion, for I was prepared. Not only do I know, Armand, but
I understand. I, who do not know what love is, have realised
how small a thing is honour, loyalty, or friendship when
weighed in the balance of a loved one's need.

To save Jeanne you sold me to Heron and his crowd. We
are men, Armand, and the word forgiveness has only been
spoken once these past two thousand years, and then it was
spoken by Divine lips. But Marguerite loves you, and mayhap
soon you will be all that is left her to love on this earth. Be-
cause of this she must never know. ... As for you, Armand
— well, God help you ! But meseems that the hell which you
are enduring now is ten thousand times worse than mine. I
have heard your furtive footsteps in the corridor outside the
grated window of this cell, and would not then have ex-
changed my hell for yours. Therefore, Armand, and because
Marguerite loves you, I would wish to turn to you in the hour

309

810 ELDORADO

that I need help. I am in a tight comer, but the hour may
come when a comrade's hand might mean life to me. I have
thought of you, Armand: partly because having taken more
than my life, your own belongs to me, and partly because the
plan which I have in my mind will carry with it grave risks
for the man who stands by me.

I swore once that never would I risk a comrade's life to
save mine own ; but matters are so different now ... we are
both in hell, Armand, and I in striving to get out of mine will
be showing you a way out of yours.

Will you retake possession of your lodgings in the Rue de
la Croix Blanche? I should always know then where to find
you On an emergency. But if at any time you receive an-
other letter from me, be its contents what they may, act in
accordance with the letter, and send a copy of it at once to
Ffoulkes or to Marguerite. Keep in close touch with them
both. Tell her I so far forgave your disobedience (there was
nothing more) that I may yet trust my life and mine honour
in your hands.

I shall have no means of ascertaining definitely whether
you will do all that I ask; but somehow, Armand, I know that
you will.

For the third time Armand read the letter through.

" But, Armand," he repeated, murmuring the words
softly under his breath, " I know that you will."

Prompted by some indefinable instinct, moved by a force
that compelled, he allowed himself to glide from the chair
on to the floor, on to his knees.

All the pent-up bitterness, the humiliation, the shame of
the past few days, surged up from his heart to his lips in
one great cry of pain.

" My God! " he whispered, '* give me the chance of giv-
ing my life for Kim."

Alone and unwatched, he gave himself over for a few

THE LETTER 311

brief moments to the almost voluptuous delight of giving
free rein to his grief. The hot Latin blood in him, tem-
pestuous in all its passions, was firing his heart and brain
now with the glow of devotion and of self-sacrifice.

The calm, self-centred Anglo-Saxon temperament —
the almost fatalistic acceptance of failure without reproach
yet without despair, which Percy's letter to him had evi-
denced in so marked a manner — was, mayhap, somewhat
beyond the comprehension of this young enthusiast, with
pure Gallic blood in his veins, who was ever wont to allow
his most elemental passions to sway his actions. But though
he did not altogether understand, Armand St. Just could
fully appreciate. All that was noble and loyal in him rose
triumphant from beneath the devastating ashes of his own
shame.

Soon his mood calmed down, his look grew less wan and
haggard. Hearing Jeanne's discreet and mouselike steps
in the next room, he rose quickly and hid the letter in the
pocket of his coat.

She came in and inquired anxiously about Marguerite ; a
hurriedly expressed excuse from him, however, satisfied
her easily enough. She wanted to be alone with Armand,
happy to see that he held his head more erect to-day, and
that the look as of a hunted creature had entirely gone
from his eyes.

She ascribed this happy change to Marguerite, finding it
in her heart to be grateful to the sister for having accom-
plished what the fiancee had failed to do.

For awhile they remained together, sitting side by side,
speaking at times, but mostly silent, seeming to savour the
return of truant happiness. Armand felt like a sick man
who has obtained a sudden surcease from pain. He looked
round him with a kind of melancholy delight on this room

■

SIS ELDORADO

which he had entered for the first time less than a fort-
night ago, and which already was so full of memories.

Those first hours spent at the feet of Jeanne Lange, how
exquisite they had been, how fleeting in the perfection of
their happiness ! Now they seemed to belong to a far dis-
that past, evanescent like the perfume of violets, swift in
their flight like the winged steps of youth. Blakeney's let-
ter had effectually taken the bitter sting from out his re-
morse, but it had increased his already over-heavy load of
inconsolable sorrow.

Later in the day he turned his footsteps in the direction
of the river, to the house in the Quai de la Ferraille above
the saddler's shop. Marguerite had returned alone from
the expedition to the Rue de Charonne. Whilst Sir An-
drew took charge of the little party of fugitives and
escorted them out of Paris, she came back to her lodgings
in order to collect her belongings, preparatory to taking up
her quarters in the house of Lucas, the old-clothes dealer.
She returned also because she hoped to see Armand.

"If you care to impart the contents of the letter to me,
come to my lodgings to-night," she had said.

All day a phantom had haunted her, the phantom of an
agonising suspicion.

But now the phantom had vanished never to return.
Armand was sitting close beside her, and he told her that
the chief had selected him amongst all the others to stand
by him inside the walls of Paris until the last

" I shall mayhap," thus closed that precious document,
" have no means of ascertaining definitely whether you will
act in accordance with this letter. But somehow, Armand,
I know that you will."

" I know that you will, Armand," reiterated Marguerite
fervently.

THE LETTER 818

She had only been too eager lo be convinced; the dread
and dark suspicion which had been like a hideous poisoned
sting had only vaguely touched her soul; it had not gone
in very deeply. How could it, when in its death-dealing
passage it encountered the rampart of tender, almost
motherly love?

Armand, trying to read his sister's thoughts in the depths
of her blue eyes, found the look in them limpid and clear.
Percy's message to Armand had reassured her just as he
had intended that it should do. Fate had dealt over harshly
with her as it was, and Blakeney's remorse for the sorrow
which he had already caused her, was scarcely less keen
than Armand's. He did not wish her to bear the intoler-
able burden of hatred against her brother; and by binding
St. Just close to him at the supreme hour of danger he
hoped to prove to the woman whom he loved so passion-
ately that Armand was worthy of trust

CHAPTER XXXV

THE LAST PHASE

" Well? How is it now? *'

" The last phase, I think."

"He will yield?"

" He must"

"Bah I you have said it yourself often enough; those
English are tough."

" It takes time to hack them to pieces, perhaps. In
this case even you, citizen Chauvelin, said that it would
take time. Well, it has taken just seventeen days, and
now the end is in sight."

It was close on midnight in the guard-room which gave
on the innermost cell of the Conciergerie. Heron had just
visited the prisoner as was his wont at this hour of the
night. He had watched the changing of the guard, in-
spected the night-watch, questioned the sergeant in charge,
and finally he had been on the point of retiring to his own
new quarters in the house of Justice, in the near vicinity
of the Conciergerie, when citizen Chauvelin entered the
guard-room unexpectedly and detained his colleague with
the peremptory question:

" How is it now ? "

" If you are so near the end, citizen Heron," he now
said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "why not make a
final effort and end it to-night? "
314

THE LAST PHASE 315

" I wish I could ; the anxiety is wearing me out more
than him," added with a jerky movement of the head in
the direction of the inner cell.

" Shall I try ? " rejoined Chauvelin grimly.

" Yes, an you wish."

Citizen Heron's long limbs were sprawling on a guard-
room chair. In this low narrow room he looked like some
giant whose body had been carelessly and loosely put to-
gether by a 'prentice hand in the art of manufacture. His
broad shoulders were bent, probably under the weight of
anxiety to which he had referred, and his head, with the
lank, shaggy hair overshadowing the brow, was sunk deep
down on his chest.

Chauvelin looked on his friend and associate with no
small measure of contempt. He would no doubt have
vastly preferred to conclude the present difficult transac-
tion entirely in his own way and alone; but equally there
was no doubt that the Committee of Public Safety did not
trust him quite so fully as it used to do before the fiasco
at Calais and the blunders of Boulogne. Heron, on the
other hand, enjoyed to its outermost the confidence of his
colleagues; his ferocious cruelty and his callousness were
well known, whilst physically, owing to his great height
and bulky if loosely knit frame, he had a decided advantage
over his trim and slender friend.

As far as the bringing of prisoners to trial was concerned,
the chief agent of the Committee of General Security had
been given a perfectly free hand by the decree of the 27th
Nivose. At first, therefore, he had experienced no diffi-
culty when he desired to keep the Englishman in close con-
finement for a time without hurrying on that summary trial
and condemnation which the populace had loudly de-
manded, and to which they felt that they were entitled as

816 ELDORADO

to a public holiday. The death of the Scarlet Pimpernel
on the guillotine had been a spectacle promised by every
demagogue who desired to purchase a few votes by holding
out visions of pleasant doings to come; and during the first
few days the mob of Paris was content to enjoy the de-
lights of expectation.

But now seventeen days had gone by and still the Eng-
lishman was not being brought to trial. The pleasure-
loving public was waxing impatient, and earlier this even-
ing, when citizen Heron had shown himself in the stalls of
the national theatre, he was greeted by a crowded audience
with decided expressions of disapproval and open mutter-
ings of:

"What of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

It almost looked as if he would have to bring that ac-
cursed Englishman to the guillotine without having wrested
from him the secret which he would have given a for-
tune to possess. Chauvelin, who had also been present at
the theatre, had heard the expressions of discontent ; hence
his visit to his colleague at this late hour of the night.

" Shall I try ? " he had queried with some impatience,
and a deep sigh of satisfaction escaped his thin lips when
the chief agent, wearied and discouraged, had reluctantly
agreed.

" Let the men make as much noise as they like," he
added with an enigmatical smile. " The Englishman and I
will want an accompaniment to our pleasant conversa-
tion."

Heron growled a surly assent, and without another word
Chauvelin turned towards the inner celL As he stepped in
he allowed the iron bar to fall into its socket behind him.
Then he went farther into the room until the distant recess
was fully revealed to him. His tread had been furtive and

THE LAST PHASE 817

almost noiseless. Now he paused, for he had caught sight
of the prisoner. For a moment he stood quite still, with
his hands clasped behind his back in his wonted attitude —
quite still save for a strange, involuntary twitching of his
mouth, and the nervous clasping and interlocking of his
fingers behind his back. He was savouring to its utmost
fulsomeness the supremest joy which animal man can ever
know — the joy of looking on a fallen enemy.

Blakeney sat at the table with one arm resting on it, the
emaciated hand tightly clutched, the body leaning forward,
the eyes looking into nothingness.

For the moment he was unconscious of Chauvelin's pres-
ence, and the latter could gaze on him to the full content
of his heart

Indeed, to all outward appearances there sat a man whom
privations of every sort and kind, the want of fresh air,
of proper food, above all, of rest, had worn down physically
to a shadow. There was not a particle of colour in cheeks
or lips, the skin was grey in hue, the eyes looked like deep
caverns, wherein the glow of fever was all that was left
of life.

Chauvelin looked on in silence, vaguely stirred by some-
thing that he could not define, something that right through
his triumphant satisfaction, his hatred and final certainty
of revenge, had roused in him a sense almost of admira-
tion.

He gazed on the noiseless figure of the man who had en-
dured so much for an ideal, and as he gazed it seemed to
him as if the spirit no longer dwelt in the body, but hovered
round in the dank, stuffy air of the narrow cell above the
head of the lonely prisoner, crowning it with glory that
was no longer of this earth.

Of this the looker-on was conscious despite himself, of

818 ELDORADO

that and of the fact that stare as he might, and with per-
ception rendered doubly keen by hate, he could not, in
spite of all, find the least trace of mental weakness in that
far-seeing gaze which seemed to pierce the prison walls,
nor could he see that bodily weakness had tended to subdue
the ruling passions.

Sir Percy Blakeney — a prisoner since seventeen days in
close, solitary confinement, half-starved, deprived of rest,
and of that mental and physical activity which-had been the
very essence of life to him hitherto — ■ might be outwardly
but a shadow of his former brilliant self, but nevertheless
he was still that same elegant English gentleman, that prince
of dandies whom Chauvelin had first met eighteen months
ago at the most courtly Court in Europe. His clothes, de-
spite constant wear and the want of attention from a
scrupulous valet, still betrayed the perfection of London
tailoring; he had put them on with meticulous care, they
were free from the slightest particle of dust, and the filmy
folds of priceless Mechlin still half-veiled the delicate white-
ness of his shapely hands.

And in the pale, haggard face, in the whole pose of body
and of arm, there was still the expression of that indomi-
table strength of will, that reckless daring, that almost in-
solent challenge to Fate; it was there untamed, uncrushed.
Chauvelin himself could not deny to himself its presence
or its force. He felt that behind that smooth brow, which
looked waxlike now, the mind was still alert, scheming,
plotting, striving for freedom, for conquest and for power,
and rendered even doubly keen and virile by the ardour of
supreme self-sacrifice.

Chauvelin now made a slight movement and suddenly
Blakeney became conscious of his presence, and swift as
a flash a smile lit up his wan face.

THE LAST PHASE 819

"Why I if it is not my engaging friend Monsieur Cham*
bertin," he said gaily.

He rose and stepped forward in the most approved fash-
ion prescribed by the elaborate etiquette of the time. But
Chauvelin smiled grimly and a look of almost animal lust
gleamed in his pale eyes, for he had noted that as he rose
Sir Percy had to seek the support of the table, even whilst
a dull film appeared to gather over his eyes.

The gestu-e had been quick and cleverly disguised, but
it had been there nevertheless — that and the livid hue that
overspread the face as if consciousness was threatening to
go. All of which was sufficient still further to assure the
looker-on that that mighty physical strength was giving
way at last, that strength which he had hated in his enemy
almost as much as he had hated the thinly veiled insolence
of his manner.

" And what procures me, sir, the honour of your visit? "
continued Blakeney, who had — at any rate, outwardly
soon recovered himself, and whose voice, though distinctly
hoarse and spent, rang quite cheerfully across the dank
narrow cell.

" My desire for your welfare, Sir Percy," replied Chau-
velin with equal pleasantry.

"La, sir; but have you not gratified that desire already,
to an extent which leaves no room for further solicitude?
But I pray you, will you not sit down?" he continued,
turning back toward the table. " I was about to partake
of the lavish supper which your friends hSve provided for
me. Will you not share it, sir? You are most royally
welcome, and it will mayhap remind you of that supper
we shared together in Calais, eh? when you, Monsieur
Chambertin, were temporarily in holy orders."

He laughed, offering his enemy a chair, and pointed with

880 ELDORADO

inviting gesture to the hunk of brown bread and the mug
of water which stood on the table.

" Such as it is, sir," he said with a pleasant smile, " it
is yours to command."

Chauvelin sat down. He held his lower lip tightly be-
tween his teeth, so tightly that a few drops of blood ap-
peared upon its narrow surface. He was making vigorous
efforts to keep his temper under control, for he would not
give his enemy the satisfaction of seeing him resent his
insolence. He could afford to keep calm now that victory
was at last in sight, now that he knew that he had but to
raise a finger, and those smiling, impudent lips would be
closed forever at last

" Sir Percy," he resumed quietly, " no doubt it affords
you a certain amount of pleasure to aim your sarcastic
shafts at me. I will not begrudge you that pleasure; in
your present position, sir, your shafts have little or no
sting."

" And I shall have but few chances left to aim them at
your charming self," interposed Blakeney, who had drawn
another chair close to the table and was now sitting op-
posite his enemy, with the light of the lamp falling full
on his own face, as if he wished his enemy to know that
he had nothing to hide, no thought, no hope, no fear.

" Exactly," said Chauvelin dryly. " That being the case,
Sir Percy, what say you to no longer wasting the few
chances which are left to you for safety? The time is get-
ting oa You are not, I imagine, quite as hopeful as you
were even a week ago, . . . you have never been over-
comfortable in this cell, why not end this unpleasant state
of affairs now — once and for all? You'll not have cause
to regret it. My word on it."

THE LAST PHASE 331

Sir Percy leaned back in his chair. He yawned loudly
and ostentatiously.

" I pray you, sir, forgive me," he said. " Never have I

been so d d fatigued. I have not slept for more than

a fortnight."

" Exactly, Sir Percy. A night's rest would do you a
world of good."

" A night, sir ? " exclaimed Blakeney with what seemed
like an echo of his former inimitable laugh. "Lai I
should want a week."

" I am afraid we could not arrange for that, but one
night would greatly refresh you."

" You are right, sir, you are right; but those d d fel-
lows in the next room make so much noise."

" I would give strict orders that perfect quietude reigned
in the guard-room this night," said Chauvelin, murmuring
softly, and there was a gentle purr in his voice, "and that
you were left undisturbed for several hours. I would give
orders that a comforting supper be served to you at once,
and that everything be done to minister to your wants."

" That sounds d d alluring, sir. Why did you not

suggest this before?"

" You were so — what shall I say — so obstinate, Sir
Percy? "

" Call it pig-headed, my dear Monsieur Chambertin," re-
torted Blakeney gaily, "truly you would oblige me."

" In any case you, sir, were acting in direct opposition
to your own interests."

" Therefore you came," concluded Blakeney airily, " like
the good Samaritan to take compassion on me and my
troubles, and to lead me straight away to comfort, a good
supper and a downy bed."

8!W ELDORADO

"Admirably put, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin blandly;
" that is exactly my mission."

" How will you set to work, Monsieur Chambertin? "

"Quite easily, if you, Sir Percy, will yield to the per-
suasion of my friend citizen Heron."

"Ah!"

" Why, yes! He is anxious to know where little Capet
is. A reasonable whim, you will own, considering that the
disappearance of the child is causing him grave anxiety."

" And you, Monsieur Chambertin ? " queried Sir Percy
with that suspicion of insolence in his manner which had
the power to irritate his enemy even now. " And yourself,
sir ; what are your wishes in the matter? "

" Mine, Sir Percy? " retorted Chauvelin. " Mine?
Why, to tell you the truth, the fate of little Capet interests
me but little. Let him rot in Austria or in our prisons, I
care not which. He'll never trouble France overmuch, I
imagine. The teachings of old Simon will not tend to
make a leader or a king out of the puny brat whom you
chose to drag out of our keeping. My wishes, sir, are the
annihilation of your accursed League, and the lasting dis-
grace, if not the death, of its chief."

He had spoken more hotly than he had intended, but alt
the pent-up rage of the past eighteen months, the recollec-
tions of Calais and of Boulogne, had all surged up again
in his mind, because despite the closeness of these prison
walls, despite the grim shadow of starvation and of death
that beckoned so close at hand, he still encountered a pair
of mocking eyes, fixed with relentless insolence upon
him.

Whilst he spoke Blakeney had once more leaned forward,
resting his elbows upon the table. Now he drew nearer
to him the wooden platter on which reposed that very un-

THE LAST PHASE 828

inviting piece of dry bread. With solemn intentness he pro-
ceeded to break the bread into pieces; then he offered the
platter to Chauvelin.

"I am sorry," he said pleasantly, " that I cannot
spare you more dainty fare, sir, but this is all that your
kind friends have supplied me with to-day."

He crumbled some of the dry bread in his slender fingers,
then started munching the crumbs with apparent relish. He
poured out some water into the mug and drank it. Then
he said with a light laugh :

" Even the vinegar which that ruffian Brogard served
us at Calais was preferable to this, do you not imagine so,
my good Monsieur Chambertin?"

Chauvelin made no reply. Like a feline creature on the
prowl, he was watching the prey that had so nearly suc-
cumbed to his talons. Blakeney's face now was positively
ghastly. The effort to speak, to laugh, to appear uncon-
cerned, was apparently beyond his strength. His cheeks
and lips were livid in hue, the skin clung like a thin layer
of wax to the bones of cheek and jaw, and the heavy lids
that fell over the eyes had purple patches on them like lead.

To a system in such an advanced state of exhaustion the
stale water and dusty bread must have been terribly nau-
seating, and Chauvelin himself callous and thirsting for
vengeance though he was, could hardly bear to look calmly
on the martyrdom of this man whom he and his colleagues
were torturing in order to gain their own ends.

An ashen hue, which seemed like the shadow of the hand
of death, passed over the prisoner's face. Chauvelin felt
compelled to avert his gaze. A feeling that was almost
akin to remorse had stirred a hidden cord in his heart.
The feeling did not last — the heart had been too long
atrophied by the constantly recurring spectacles of cruelties.

324 ELDORADO

massacres, and wholesale hecatombs perpetrated in the past
eighteen months in the name of liberty and fraternity to
be capable of a sustained effort in the direction of gentle-
ness or of pity. Any noble instinct in these revolutionaries
had long ago been drowned in a whirlpool of exploits that
would forever sully the records of humanity; and this
keeping of a fellow-creature on the rack in order to wring
from him a Judas-like betrayal was but a complement to a
record of infamy that had ceased by its very magnitude to
weigh upon their souls.

Chauvelin was in no way different from his colleagues;
the crimes in which he had had no hand he bad condoned
by continuing to serve the Government that had committed
them, and his ferocity in the present case was increased a
thousandfold by his personal hatred for the man who had
so often fooled and baffled him.

When he looked round a second or two later that
ephemeral fit of remorse did its final vanishing ; he had
once more encountered the pleasant smile, the laughing if
ashen-pale face of his unconquered foe.

" Only a passing giddiness, my dear sir," said Sir Percy
lightly. " As you were saying — "

At the airily-spoken words, at the smile that accompanied
them, Chauvelin had jumped to his feet. There was some-
thing almost supernatural, weird, and impish about the
present situation, about this dying man who, like an im-
pudent schoolboy, seemed to be mocking Death with his
tongue in his cheek, about his laugh that appeared to find
its echo in a widely yawning grave.

" In the name of God, Sir Percy," he said roughly, as
he brought his clenched fist crashing down upon the table,
" this situation is intolerable. Bring it to an end to-
night I "

THE LAST PHASE 825

"Why, sir?" retorted Blakeney, " methought you and
your kind did not believe in God."

" No. But you English do."

" We do. But we do not care to hear His name on your
lips."

" Then in the name of the wife whom you love — "

But even before the words had died upon his lips, Sir
Percy, too, had risen to his feet.

" Have done, man — have done," he broke in hoarsely,
and despite weakness, despite exhaustion and weariness,
there was such a dangerous look in his hollow eyes as he
leaned across the table that Chauvelin drew back a step or
two, and — vaguely fearful — looked furtively towards the
opening into the guard-room. " Have done," he reiterated
for the third time ; " do not name her, or by the living God
whom you dared to invoke I'll find strength yet to smite
you in the face."

But Chauvelin, after that first moment of almost super-
stitious fear, had quickly recovered his sang-froid.

" Little Capet, Sir Percy," he said, meeting the other's
threatening glance with an imperturbable smile, " tell me
where to find him, and you may yet live to savour the
caresses of the most beautiful woman in England."

He had meant it as a taunt, the final turn of the thumb-
screw applied to a dying man, and he had in that watchful,
keen mind of his well weighed the full consequences of the
taunt.

The next moment he had paid to the full the anticipated
price. Sir Percy had picked up the pewter mug from the
table — it was half-filled with brackish water — and with
a hand that trembled but slightly he hurled it straight at his
opponent's face.

The heavy mug did not hit citizen Chauvelin; it went

$m ELDORADO

crashing against the stone wall opposite. But the water
was trickling from the top of his head all down his eyes and
cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders with a look of benign
indulgence directed at his enemy, who had fallen back into
his chair exhausted with the effort.

Then he took out his handkerchief and calmly wiped the
water from his face.

" Not quite so straight a shot as you used to be, Sir
Percy," he said mockingly.

" No, sir — apparently — not."

The words came out in gasps. He was like a man only
partly conscious. The lips were parted, the eyes closed,
the head leaning against the high back of the chair. For
the space of one second Chauvelin feared that his zeal had
outrun his prudence, that he had dealt a death-blow to a
man in the last stage of exhaustion, where he had only
wished to fan the flickering flame of life. Hastily — for
the seconds seemed precious — he ran to the opening that
led into the guard-room.

" Brandy — quick I " he cried.

Heron looked up, roused from the semi-somnolence in
which he had lain for the past half-hour. He disentangled
his long limbs from out the guard-room chair.

" Eh ? " he queried. " What is it ? "

" Brandy," reiterated Chauvelin impatiently ; " the pris-
oner has fainted."

" Bah I " retorted the other with a callous shrug of the
shoulders, " you are not going to revive him with brandy,
I imagine."

" No. But you will, citizen Heron," rejoined the other
dryly, " for if you do not he'll be dead in an hourl "

" Devils in hell I " exclaimed Heron, " you have not killed
him? You — you d d f ooll "

THE LAST PHASE 827

He was wide awake enough now ; wide awake and shak-
ing with fury. Almost foaming at the mouth and uttering
volleys of the choicest oaths, he elbowed his way roughly
through the groups of soldiers who were crowding round
the centre table of the guard-room, smoking and throwing
dice or playing cards. They made way for him as hurriedly
as they could, for it was not safe to thwart the citizen
agent when he was in a rage.

Heron walked across to the opening and lifted the iron
bar. With scant ceremony he pushed his colleague aside
and strode into the cell, whilst Chauvelin, seemingly not
resenting the other's ruffianly manners and violent language,
followed close upon his heel.

In the centre of the room both men paused, and Heron
turned with a surly growl to his friend.

" You vowed he would be dead in an hour," he said re-
proachfully.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

" It does not look like it now certainly," he said dryly.

Blakeney was sitting — as was hts wont — close to the
table, with one arm leaning on it, the other, tightly clenched,
resting upon his knee. A ghost of a smile hovered round
his lips.

" Not in an hour, citizen Heron," he said, and his voice
now was scarce above a whisper, " nor yet in two."

" You are a fool, man," said Heron roughly. " You
have had seventeen days of this. Are you not sick of it? "

" Heartily, my dear friend," replied Blakeney a little
more firmly.

" Seventeen days," reiterated the other, nodding his
shaggy head ; " you came here on the 2nd of Pluviose, to-
day is the 19th."

"The 19th Pluviose?" interposed Sir Percy, and a

328 ELDORADO

strange gleam suddenly flashed in his eyes. " Demn it, sir,
and in Christian parlance what may that day be? "

" The 7th of February at your service, Sir Percy," replied
Chauvelin quietly.

" I thank you, sir. In this d d hole I had lost count

of time."

Chauvelin, unlike his rough and blundering colleague,
had been watching the prisoner very closely for the last
moment or two, conscious of a subtle, undefinable change
that had come over the man during those few seconds
while he, Chauvelin, had thought him dying. The pose was
certainly the old familiar one, the head erect, the hand
clenched, the eyes looking through and beyond the stone
walls; but there was an air of listlessness in the stoop of
the shoulders, and — except for that one brief gleam just
now — a look of more complete weariness round the hollow
eyes! To the keen watcher it appeared as if that sense of
living power, of unconquered will and defiant mind was no
longer there, and as if he himself need no longer fear that
almost supersensual thrill which had a while ago kindled
in him a vague sense of admiration — almost of remorse.

Even as he gazed, Blakeney slowly turned his eyes full
upon him. Chauvelin's heart gave a triumphant bound.

With a mocking smile he met the wearied look, the piti-
able appeal. His turn had come at last — his turn to
mock and to exult. He knew that what he was watching
now was no longer the last phase of a long and noble
martyrdom; it was the end — the inevitable end — that for
which he had schemed and striven, for which he had
schooled his heart to ferocity and callousness that were
devilish in their intensity. It was the end indeed, the slow
descent of a soul from the giddy heights of attempted self-

THE LAST PHASE 839

sacrifice, where it had striven to soar for a time, until the
body and the will both succumbed together and dragged it
down with them into the abyss of submission and of irrep-
arable shame.

CHAPTER XXXVI

SUBMISSION

Silence reigned in the narrow cell for a few moments,
whilst two human jackals stood motionless over their cap-
tured prey.

A savage triumph gleamed in Chauvelin's eyes, and even
Heron, dull and brutal though he was, had become vaguely
conscious of the great change that had come over the
prisoner.

Blakeney, with a gesture and a sigh of hopeless exhaus-
tion had once more rested both his elbows on the table ; his
head fell heavy and almost lifeless downward in his arms.

" Curse you, man ! " cried Heron almost involuntarily.
" Why in the name of hell did you wait so long?"

Then, as the prisoner made no reply, but only raised his
head slightly, and looked on the other two men with dulled,
wearied eyes, Chauveltn interposed calmly :

" More than a fortnight has been wasted in useless ob-
stinacy, Sir Percy. Fortunately it is not too late."

"Capet?" said Heron hoarsely, "tell us, where is
Capet ? "

He leaned across the table, his eyes were bloodshot with
the keenness of his excitement, his voice shook with the
passionate desire for the crowning triumph.

" If you'll only not worry me," murmured the prisoner ;
and the whisper came so laboriously and so low that both
men were forced to bend their ears close to the scarcely

SUBMISSION 881

moving lips; " if you will let me sleep and rest, and leave
me in peace — "

" The peace of the grave, man," retorted Chauvelin
roughly; " if you will only speak. Where is Capet? "

" I cannot tell you ; the way is long, the road — intricate."

"Bah I"

" I'll lead you to him, if you will give me rest."

" We don't want you to lead us anywhere," growled
Heron with a smothered curse ; " tell us where Capet is ;
we'll find him right enough."

" I cannot explain ; the way is intricate ; the place off the
beaten track, unknown except to me and my friends."

Once more that shadow, which was so like the passing
of the hand of Death, overspread the prisoner's face; his
head rolled back against the chair.

" He'll die before he can speak," muttered Chauvelin
under his breath. " You usually are well provided with
brandy, citizen Heron."

The latter no longer demurred. He saw the danger as
clearly as did his colleague. It had been hell's own luck
if the prisoner were to die now when he seemed ready to
give in. He produced a flask from the pocket of his coat,
and this he held to Blakeney's lips.

" Beastly stuff," murmured the latter feebly. " I think
I'd sooner faint — than drink."

" Capet ? where is Capet ? " reiterated Heron impatiently.

" One — ■ two — three hundred leagues from here. I
must let one of my friends know; he'll communicate with
the others; they must be prepared," replied the prisoner
slowly.

Heron uttered a blasphemous oath.

"Where is Capet? Tell us where Capet is, or — "

He was like a raging tiger that had thought to hold its

882 ELDORADO

prey and suddenly realised that it was being snatched from
him. He raised his fist, and without doubt the next moment
he would have silenced forever the lips that held the pre-
cious secret, but Chauvelin fortunately was quick enough
to seize his wrist.

" Have a care, citizen," he said peremptorily ; " have a
care ! You called me a fool just now when you thought I
had killed the prisoner. It is his secret we want first ; his
death can follow afterwards."

" Yes, but not in this d d hole," murmured Blakeney.

" On the guillotine if you'll speak," cried Heron, whose
exasperation was getting the better of his self-interest, " but
if you'll not speak then it shall be starvation in this hole —
yes, starvation," he growled, showing a row of large and
uneven teeth like those of some mongrel cur, " for I'll have
that door walled in to-night, and not another living soul
shall cross this threshold again until your flesh has rotted
on your bones and the rats have had their fill of you."

The prisoner raised his head slowly, a shiver shook him
as if caused by ague, and his eyes, that appeared almost
sightless, now looked with a strange glance of horror on
his enemy.

" I'll die in the open," he whispered, " not in this d d

hole."

" Then tell us where Capet is."

" I cannot ; I wish to God I could. But I'll take you to
him, I swear I will. I'll make my friends give him up to
you. Do you think that I would not tell you now, if I
could."

Heron, whose every instinct of tyranny revolted against
this thwarting of his will, would have continued to heckle
the prisoner even now, had not Chauvelin suddenly inter-
posed with an authoritative gesture.

SUBMISSION 998

" You'll gain nothing this way, citizen," he said quietly ;
" the man's mind is wandering; he is probably quite unable
to give you clear directions at this moment."

" What am I to do, then ? " muttered the other roughly.
" He cannot live another twenty-four hours now, and would
only grow more and more helpless as time went on."

" Unless you relax your strict regime with him."

" And if I do we'll only prolong this situation indefinitely;
and in the meanwhile how do we know that the brat is not
being spirited away out of the country?"

The prisoner, with his head once more buried in his
arms, had fallen into a kind of torpor, the only kind of
sleep that the exhausted system would allow. With a brutal
gesture Heron shook him by the shoulder.

" Hi," he shouted, " none of that, you know. We have
not settled the matter of young Capet yet."

Then, as the prisoner made no movement, and the chief
agent indulged in one of his favourite volleys of oaths,
Chauvelin placed a peremptory hand on his colleague's
shoulder.

" I tell you, citizen, that this is no use," he said firmly.
" Unless you are prepared to give up all thoughts of finding
Capet, you must try and curb your temper, and try diplo-
macy where force is sure to fail."

" Diplomacy? " retorted the other with a sneer. " Bahl
it served you well at Boulogne last autumn, did it not, citi-
zen Chauvelin ? "

" It has served me better now," rejoined the other im-
perturbably. " You will own, citizen, that it is my dip-
lomacy which has placed within your reach the ultimate
hope of finding Capet."

" H'm! " muttered the other, " you advised us to starve
the prisoner. Are we any nearer to knowing his secret ? "

»

834 ELDORADO

" Yes. By a fortnight of weariness, of exhaustion and
of starvation, you are nearer to it by the weakness of the
man whom in his full strength you could never hope to con-
quer."

" But if the cursed Englishman won't speak, and in the
meanwhile dies on my hands — •"

" He won't do that if you will accede to his wish. Give
him some good food now, and let him sleep till dawn."

" And at dawn he'll defy me again. I believe now that
he has some scheme in his mind, and means to play us a
trick."

" That, I imagine, is more than likely," retorted Chauvelin
dryly ; " though," he added with a contemptuous nod of the
head directed at the huddled-up figure of his once brilliant
enemy, " neither mind nor body seem to me to be in a suffi-
ciently active state just now for hatching plot or intrigue;
but even if — vaguely floating through his clouded mind —
there has sprung some little scheme for evasion,. I give you
my word, citizen Heron, that you can thwart him com-
pletely, and gain all that you desire, if you will only follow
my advice."

There had always been a great amount of persuasive
power in citizen Chauvelin, ex-envoy of the revolutionary
Government of France at the Court of St. James, and that
same persuasive eloquence did not fail now in its effect on
the chief agent of the Committee of General Security.
The latter was made of coarser stuff than his more brilliant
colleague. Chauvelin was like a wily and sleek panther
that is furtive in its movements, that will lure its prey,
watch it, follow it with stealthy footsteps, and only pounce
on it when it is least wary, whilst Heron was more like a
raging bull that tosses its head in a blind, irresponsible
fashion, rushes at an obstacle without gauging its resisting

SUBMISSION 806

powers, and allows its victim to slip from beneath its weight
through the very clumsiness and brutality of its assault.

Still Chauvelin had two heavy black marks against him
— those of his failures at Calais and Boulogne. Heron,
rendered cautious both by the deadly danger in which he
stood and the sense of his own incompetence to deal with
the present situation, tried to resist the other's authority as
well as his persuasion.

" Your advice was not of great use to citizen Collot last
autumn at Boulogne," he said, and spat on the ground by
way of expressing both his independence and his contempt.

" Still, citizen Heron," retorted Chauvelin with unruffled
patience, " it is the best advice that you are likely to get in
the present emergency. You have eyes to see, have you not ?
Look on your prisoner at this moment. Unless something
is done, and at once, too, he will be past negotiating with
in the next twenty- four hours; then what will follow? "

He put hjs thin hand once more on his colleague's grubby
coat-sleeve, he drew him closer to himself away from the
vicinity of that huddled figure, that captive lion, wrapped
in a torpid somnolence that looked already so like the last
long sleep.

"What will follow, citizen Heron?" he reiterated, sink-
ing his voice to a whisper ; " sooner or later some meddle-
some busybody who sits in the Assembly of the Convention
will get wind that little Capet is no longer in the Temple
prison, that a pauper child was substituted for him, and
that you, citizen Heron, together with the commissaries in
charge, have thus been fooling the nation and its repre-
sentatives for over a fortnight. What will follow then,
think you?"

And he made an expressive gesture with his outstretched
fingers across his throat.

SS6 ELDORADO

Heron found no other answer but blasphemy.

" I'll make that cursed Englishman speak yet," he said
with a fierce oath.

" You cannot," retorted Chauvelin decisively. " In his
present state he is incapable of it, even if he would, which
also is doubtful."

" Ah I then you do think that he still means to cheat us? "

" Yes, I do. But I also know that he is no longer in a
physical state to do it. No doubt he thinks that he is. A
man of that type is sure to overvalue his own strength ; but
look at him, citizen Heron. Surely you must see that we
have nothing to fear from him now."

Heron now was like a voracious creature that has two
victims lying ready for his gluttonous jaws. He was loath
to let either of them go. He hated the very thought of
seeing the Englishman being led out of this narrow cell,
where he had kept a watchful eye over him night and day
for a fortnight, satisfied that with every day, every hour,
the chances of escape became more improbable and more
rare; at the same time there was the possibility of the re-
capture of little Capet, a possibility which made Heron's
brain reel with the delightful vista of it, and which might
never come about if the prisoner remained silent to the end.

" I wish I were quite sure," he said sullenly, " that you
were body and soul in accord with me."

" I am in accord with you, citizen Heron," rejoined the
other earnestly — " body and soul in accord with you. Do
you not believe that I hate this man — aye 1 hate him with
a hatred ten thousand times more strong than yours? I
want his death — Heaven or hell alone know how I long
for that — but what I long for most is his lasting disgrace.
For that I have worked, citizen Heron — for that I ad-
vised and helped you. When first you captured this man

SUBMISSION 887

you wanted summarily to try him, to send him to the
guillotine amidst the joy of the populace of Paris, and
crowned with a splendid halo of martyrdom. That man,
citizen Heron, would have baffled you, mocked you, and
fooled you even on the steps of the scaffold. In the zenith
of his strength and of insurmountable good luck you and all
your myrmidons and all the assembled guard of Paris
would have had no power over him. The day that you led
him out of this cell in order to take him to trial or to the
guillotine would have been that of your hopeless discom-
fiture. Having once walked out of this cell hale, hearty
and alert, be the escort round him ever so strong, he never
would have re-entered it again. Of that I am as convinced
as that I am alive. I know the man ; you don't. Mine are
not the only fingers through which he has slipped. Ask
citizen Collot d'Herbois, ask Sergeant Bibot at the barrier
of Menilmontant, ask General Santerre and his guards.
They all have a tale to tell. Did I believe in God or the
devil, I should also believe that this man has supernatural
powers and a host of demons at his beck and call."

" Yet you talk now of letting him walk out of this cell
to-morrow ? "

" He is a different man now, citizen Heron. On my
advice you placed him on a regime that has counteracted
the supernatural power by simple physical exhaustion, and
driven to the four winds the host of demons who no doubt
fled in the face of starvation."

" If only I thought that the recapture of Capet was as
vital to you as it is to me," said Heron, still unconvinced.

" The capture of Capet is just as vital to me as it is to
you," rejoined Chauvelin earnestly, " if it is brought about
through the instrumentality of the Englishman."

He paused, looking intently on his colleague, whose shifty

3S8 ELDORADO

eyes encountered his own. Thus eye to eye the two men
at last understood one another.

" Ah 1 " said Heron with a snort, " I think I understand."

" I am sure that you do," responded Chauvelin dryly.
" The disgrace of this cursed Scarlet Pimpernel and his
League is as vital to me, and more, as the capture of Capet
is to you. That is why I showed you the way how to bring
that meddlesome adventurer to his knees; that is why I
will help you now both to find Capet and with his aid and
to wreak what reprisals you like on him in the end."

Heron before he spoke again cast one more look on the
prisoner. The latter had not stirred ; his face was hidden,
but the hands, emaciated, nerveless and waxen, like those of
the dead, told a more eloquent tale, mayhap, then than the
eyes could do. The chief agent of the Committee of Gen-
eral Security walked deliberately round the table until he
stood once more close beside the man from whom he longed
with passionate ardour to wrest an all-important secret.
With brutal, grimy hand he raised the head that lay, sunken*
and inert, against the table ; with callous eyes he gazed at-
tentively on the face that was then revealed to him, he
looked on the waxen flesh, the hollow eyes, the bloodless
lips ; then he shrugged his wide shoulders, and with a laugh
that surely must have caused joy in hell, he allowed the
wearied head to fall back against the outstretched arms, and
turned once again to his colleague.

" I think you are right, citizen Chauvelin," he said ; " there
is not much supernatural power here. Let me hear your
advice."

CHAPTER XXXVII
chauvelin's advice

Citizen Chauvelin had drawn his colleague with him
to the end of the cell that was farthest away from the
recess, and the table at which the prisoner was sitting.

Here the noise and hubbub that went on constantly in the
guard room would effectually drown a whispered conversa-
tion. Chauvelin called to the sergeant to hand him a couple
of chairs over the barrier. These he placed against the
wall opposite the opening, and beckoning Heron to sit down,
he did likewise, placing himself close to his colleague.

From where the two men now sat they could see both
into the guard-room opposite them and into the recess at
the furthermost end of the cell.

" First of all," began Chauvelin after a while, and sink-
ing his voice to a whisper, "let me understand you
thoroughly, citizen HeVon. Do you want the death of the
Englishman, either to-day or to-morrow, either in this
prison or on the guillotine? For that now is easy of ac-
complishment; or do you want, above all, to get hold of
little Capet ? "

" It is Capet I want," growled Heron savagely under his
breath. " Capet 1 Capet 1 My own neck is dependent on
my finding Capet Curse you, have I not told you that
clearly enough ? "

" You have told it me very clearly, citizen HeYon ; but
I wished to make assurance doubly sure, and also make you
understand that I, too, want the Englishman to betray little

840 ELDORADO

Capet into your hands. I want that more even than I do
his death."

" Then in the name of hell, citizen, give me your advice."

" My advice to you, citizen Heron, is. this: Give your
prisoner now just a sufficiency of food to revive him — he
will have had a few moments' sleep — and when he has
eaten, and, mayhap, drunk a glass of wine, he will, no doubt,
feel a recrudescence of strength, then give him pen and ink
and paper. He must, as he says, write to one of his follow-
ers, who, in his turn, I suppose, will communicate with the
others, bidding them to be prepared to deliver up little Capet
to us; the letter must make it clear to that crowd of English
gentlemen that their beloved chief is giving up the un-
crowned King of France to us in exchange for his own
safety. But I think you will agree with me, citizen Heron,
that it would not be over-prudent on our part to allow that
same gallant crowd to be forewarned too soon of the pro-
posed doings of their chief. Therefore, I think, we'll ex-
plain to the prisoner that his follower, whom he will first
apprise of his intentions, shall start with us to-morrow on
our expedition, and accompany us until its last stage, when,
if it is found necessary, he may be sent on ahead, strongly
escorted of course, and with personal messages from the
gallant Scarlet Pimpernel to the members of his League."

"What will be the good of that?" broke in Heron
viciously. " Do you want one of his accursed followers
to be ready to give him a helping hand on the way if he
tries to slip through our fingers?"

" Patience, patience, my good Heron ! " rejoined Chau-
velin with a placid smile. " Hear me out to the end. Time
is precious. You shall offer what criticism you will when
I have finished, but not before."

" Go on, then. I listen."

CHAUVELIN'S ADVICE 841

" I am not only proposing that one member of the Scar-
let Pimpernel League shall accompany us to-morrow," con-
tinued Chauvelin, " but I would also force the prisoner's
wife — Marguerite Blakeney — to follow in our train."

"A woman? Bah! What for?"

" I will tell you the reason of this presently. In her
case I should not let the prisoner know beforehand that she
too will form a part of our expedition. Let this come as a
pleasing surprise for him. She could join us on our way
out of Paris."

" How will you get hold of her? "

" Easily enough. I know where to find her. I traced her
myself a few days ago to a house in the Rue de Charonne,
and she is not likely to have gone away from Paris while
her husband was at the Conciergerie. But this is a digres-
sion, let me proceed more consecutively. The letter, as I
have said, being written to-night by the prisoner to one of
his followers, I will myself see that it is delivered into the
right hands. You, citizen Heron, will in the meanwhile
make all arrangements for the journey. We ought to start
at dawn, and we ought to be prepared, especially during
the first fifty leagues of the way, against organised attack
in case the Englishman leads us into an ambush."

" Yes. He might even do that, curse him I " muttered
Heron.

" He might, but it is unlikely. Still it is best to be pre-
pared. Take a strong escort, citizen, say twenty or thirty
men, picked and trained soldiers who would make short
work of civilians, however well-armed they might be.
There are twenty members — including the chief — in that
Scarlet Pimpernel League, and I do not quite see how from
this cell the prisoner could organise an ambuscade against
us at a given time. Anyhow, that is a matter for you to

S42 ELDORADO

decide. I have still to place before you a scheme which is
a measure of safety for ourselves and our men against am-
bush as well as against trickery, and which I feel sure you
will pronounce quite adequate."

" Let me hear it, then 1 "

" The prisoner will have to travel by coach, of course.
You can travel with him, if you like, and put him in irons,
and thus avert all chances of his escaping on the road.
But " — and here Chauvelin made a long pause, which had
the effect of holding his colleague's attention still more
closely — " remember that we shall have his wife and one
of his friends with us. Before we finally leave Paris to-
morrow we will explain to the prisoner that at the first at-
tempt to escape on his part, at the slightest suspicion that
he has tricked us for his own ends or is leading us into an
ambush — at the slightest suspicion, I say — you, citizen
Heron, will order his friend first, and then Marguerite
Blakeney herself, to be summarily shot before his eyes."

Heron gave a long, low whistle. Instinctively he threw
a furtive, backward glance at the prisoner, then he raised
his shifty eyes to his colleague.

There was unbounded admiration expressed in them.
One blackguard had met another — a greater one than him-
self — and was proud to acknowledge him as his master.

" By Lucifer, citizen Chauvelin," he said at last, " I
should never have thought of such a thing myself."

Chauvelin put up his hand with a gesture of self-depre-
cation.

" I certainly think that measure ought to be adequate,"
he said with a gentle air of assumed modesty, " unless you
would prefer to arrest the woman and lodge her here, keep-
ing her here as an hostage."

"No, no I" said Heron with a gruff laugh; "that idea

CHAUVELIN'S ADVICE 94S

does not appeal to me nearly so much as the other. I should
not feel so secure on the way. ... I should always be
thinking that that cursed woman had been allowed to escape.
. . . No! no! I would rather keep her under my own eye
— just as you suggest, citizen Chauvelin . . . and under
the prisoner's, too," he added with a coarse jest. " If he
did not actually see her, he might be more ready to try and
save himself at her expense. But, of course, he could not
see her shot before his eyes. It is a perfect plan, citizen,
and does you infinite credit; and if the Englishman tricked
us," he concluded with a fierce and savage oath, " and we
did not find Capet at the end of the journey, I would gladly
strangle his wife and his friend with my own hands."

" A satisfaction which I would not begrudge you, citi-
zen," said Chauvelin dryly. " Perhaps you are right . . .
the woman had best be kept under your own eye . . . the
prisoner will never risk her safety on that, I would stake
my life. We'll deliver our final 'either — or' the moment
that she has joined our party, and before we start further
on our way. Now, citizen Heron, you have heard my ad-
vice; are you prepared to follow it? "

" To the last letter," replied the other.

And their two hands met in a grasp of mutual under-
standing — two hands already indelibly stained with much
innocent blood, more deeply stained now with seventeen
past days of inhumanity and miserable treachery to come.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CAPITULATION

What occurred within the inner cell of the Conciergerie
prison within the next half-hour of that 16th day of
Pluviose in the year II of the Republic is, perhaps, too
well known to history to need or bear overfull repetition.

Chroniclers intimate with the inner history of those in-
famous days have told us how the chief agent of the Com-
mittee of General Security gave orders one hour after mid-
night that hot soup, white bread and wine be served to the
prisoner, who for close on fourteen days previously had
been kept on short rations of black bread and water; the
sergeant in charge of the guard-room watch for the night
also received strict orders that that same prisoner was on no
account to be disturbed until the hour of six in the morning,
when he was to be served with anything in the way of
breakfast that he might fancy.

All this we know, and also that citizen Heron, having
given all necessary orders for the morning's expedition,
returned to the Conciergerie, and found his colleague Chau-
velin waiting for him in the guard-room.

"Well?" he asked with febrile impatience — "the pris-
oner ? "

" He seems better and stronger," replied Chauvelin.

" Not too well, I hope ? "

" No, no, only just well enough."

" You have seen him — since his supper? "

" Only from the doorway. It seems he ate and drank

CAPITULATION 945

hardly at all, and the sergeant had some difficulty in keep-
ing him awake until you came."

" Well, now for the letter," concluded Heron with the
same marked feverishness of manner which sat so curiously
on his uncouth personality. " Pen, ink and paper, ser-
geant ! " he commanded.

" On the table, in the prisoner's cell, citizen," replied the
sergeant.

He preceded the two citizens across the guard-room to
the doorway, and raised for them the iron bar, lowering it
back after them.

The next moment Heron and Chauvelin were once more
face to face with their prisoner.

Whether by accident or design the lamp had been so placed
that as the two men approached its light fell full upon their
faces, while that of the prisoner remained in shadow. He
was leaning forward with both elbows on the table, his
thin, tapering fingers toying with the pen and ink-horn which
had been placed close to his hand.

" I trust that everything has been arranged for your com-
fort, Sir Percy?" Chauvelin asked with a sarcastic little
smile.

" I thank you, sir," replied Blakeney politely.

" You feel refreshed, I hope? "

" Greatly so, I assure you. But I am still demmed
sleepy ; and if you would kindly be brief — "

" You have not changed your mind, sir? " queried Chau-
velin, and a note of anxiety, which he vainly tried to con-
ceal, quivered in his voice.

" No, my good M. Chambertin," replied Blakeney with
the same urbane courtesy, " I have not changed my mind."

A sigh of relief escaped the lips of both the men. The
prisoner certainly had spoken in a clearer and firmer voice;

346 EIJX)RADO

but whatever renewed strength wine and food had imparted
to him he apparently did not mean to employ tn renewed
obstinacy. Chauvelin, after a moment's pause, resumed
more calmly:

" You are prepared to direct us to the place where little
Capet lies hidden?"

"I am prepared to do anything, sir, to get out of this
d d hole."

" Very well. My colleague, citizen Heron, has arranged
for an escort of twenty men picked from the best regiment
of the Garde de Paris to accompany us — yourself, him
and me — to wherever you will direct us. Is that clear?"

" Perfectly, sir."

" You must not imagine for a moment that we, on the
other hand, guarantee to give you your life and freedom
even it this expedition prove unsuccessful."

" I would not venture on suggesting such a wild propo-
sition, sir," said Blakeney placidly.

Chauvelin looked keenly on him. There was something
in the tone of that voice that he did not altogether like —
something that reminded him of an evening at Calais, and
yet again of a day at Boulogne. He could not read the
expression in the eyes, so with a quick gesture he pulled the
lamp forward so that its light now fell full on the face of
the prisoner.

" Ah ! that is certainly better, is it not, my dear M.
Chambertin?" said Sir Percy, beaming on his adversary
with a pleasant smile.

His face, though still of the same ashen hue, looked
serene if hopelessly wearied ; the eyes seemed to mock.
But this Chauvelin decided in himself must have been a trick
of his own overwrought fancy. After a brief moment's
pause he resumed dryly:

CAPITULATION 847

" If, however, the expedition turns out successful in every
way — if little Capet, without much trouble to our escort,
falls safe and sound into our hands — if certain contin-
gencies which I am about to tell you all fall out as we wish
— then. Sir Percy, I see no reason why the Government
of this country should not exercise its prerogative of mercy
towards you after all."

" An exercise, my dear M. Chambertin, which must have
wearied through frequent repetition," retorted Blakeney
with the same imperturbable smile.

" The contingency at present is somewhat remote; when
the time comes we'll talk this matter over. ... I will
make no promise . . . and, anyhow, we can discuss it
later."

" At present we are but wasting our valuable time over
so trifling a matter. ... If you'll excuse me, sir ... I
am so demmed fatigued — "

" Then you will be glad to have everything settled quickly,
I am sure."

" Exactly, sir."

Heron was taking no par! in the present conversation.
He knew that his temper was not likely to remain within
bounds, and though he had nothing but contempt for his
colleague's courtly manners, yet vaguely in his stupid, blun-
dering way he grudgingly admitted that mayhap it was
better to allow citizen Chauvelin to deal with the English-
man. There was always the danger that if his own violent
temper got the better of him, he might even at this eleventh
hour order this insolent prisoner to summary trial and the
guillotine, and thus lose the final chance of the more im-
portant capture.

He was sprawling on a chair in his usual slouching man-
ner, with his big head sunk between his broad shoulders,

848 ELDORADO

his shifty, prominent eyes wandering restlessly from the
face of his colleague to that of the other man.

But now he gave a grunt of impatience.

" We are wasting time, citizen Chauvdin," he muttered.
" I have still a great deal to see to if we are to start at
dawn. Get the d d letter written, and — "

The rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct and surly
murmur. Chauvelin, after a shrug of the shoulders, paid
no further heed to him ; he turned, bland and urbane, once
more to the prisoner.

" I see with pleasure, Sir Percy," he said, " that we
thoroughly understand one another. Having had a few
hours' rest you will, I know, feel quite ready for the ex-
pedition. Will you kindly indicate to me the direction in
which we will have to travel ? "

" Northwards all the 'way."

" Towards the coast? "

" The place to which we must go is about seven leagues
from the sea."

" Our first objective then will be Beauvais, Amiens, Abbe-
ville, Crecy, and so on ? "

" Precisely."

" As far as the forest of Boulogne, shall we say? "

" Where we shall come off the beaten track, and you
will have to trust to my guidance."

" We might go there now, Sir Percy, and leave you here."

" You might. But you would not then find the child.
Seven leagues is not far from the coast. He might slip
through your fingers."

" And my colleague Heron, being disappointed, would
inevitably send you to the guillotine."

" Quite so," rejoined the prisoner placidly. " Methought,
sir, that we had decided that I should lead this little ex-

CAPITULATION S49

pedition ? Surely," he added, " it is not so much the
Dauphin whom you want as my share in this betrayal."

" You are right as usual, Sir Percy. Therefore let us
take that as settled. We go as far as Crecy, and thence
place ourselves entirely in your hands."

" The journey should not take more than three days, sir."

" During which you will travel in a coach in the company
of my friend Heron."

"I could have chosen pleasanter company, sir; still,
it will serve."

" This being settled. Sir Percy. I understand that you
desire to communicate with one of your followers."

" Some one must let the others know . . . those who
have the Dauphin in their charge."

" Quite so. Therefore I pray you write to one of your
friends that you have decided to deliver the Dauphin into
our hands in exchange for your own safety."

" You said just now that this you would not guarantee,"
interposed Blakeney quietly.

" If all turns out well," retorted Chauvelin with a show
of contempt, " and if you will write the exact letter which I
shall dictate, we might even give you that guarantee."

" The quality of your mercy, sir, passes belief."

" Then I pray you write. Which of your followers will
have the honour of the communication? "

" My brother-in-law, Armand St. Just ; he is still in
Paris, I believe. He can let the others know."

Chauvelin made no immediate reply. He paused awhile,
hesitating. Would Sir Percy Blakeney be ready — if his
own safety demanded it — to sacrifice the man who had
betrayed him? In the momentous "either — ort" that
was to be put to him, by-and-by, would he choose his own
life and leave Armand St. Just to perish? It was not for

Chauvelin — or any man of his stamp — to judge of what
Blakeney would do under such circumstances, and had it
been a question of St. Just alone, mayhap Chauvelin would
have hesitated still more at the present juncture.

But the friend as hostage was only destined to be a minor
leverage for the final breaking-up of the League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel through the disgrace of its chief. There
was the wife — Marguerite Blakeney — sister of St. Just,
joint and far more important hostage, whose very close
affection for her brother might prove an additional trump
card in that handful which Chauvelin already held.

Blakeney paid no heed seemingly to the other's hesitation.
He did not even look up at him, but quietly drew pen and
paper towards him, and made ready to write.

" What do you wish me to say? " he asked simply.

" Will that young blackguard answer your purpose, citi-
zen Chauvelin?" queried Heron roughly.

Obviously the same doubt had crossed his mind. Chau-
velin quickly re-assured him.

" Better than any one else," he said firmly. " Will you
write at my dictation, Sir Percy? "

" I am waiting to do so, my dear sir."

" Begin your letter as you wish, then; now continue."

And he began to dictate slowly, watching every word as
it left Blakeney's pen.

" ' I cannot stand my present position any longer. Citi-
zen Heron, and also M, Chauvelin — ' Yes, Sir Percy,
Chauvelin, not Chambertin . . . C, H, A, U, V, E, L, I, N.
. . . That is quite right — ' have made this prison a perfect
hell for me.' "

Sir Percy looked up from his writing, smiling.

" You wrong yourself, my dear M. Chambertin 1 " he
said; " I have really been most comfortable."

CAPITULATION 351

" I wish to place the matter before your friends in as
indulgent a manner as I can," retorted Chauvelin dryly.

" I thank you, sir. Pray proceed."

". . . ' a perfect hell for me,' " resumed the other.
"Have you that? . . . 'and I have been forced to give
way. To-morrow we start from here at dawn ; and I will
guide citizen Heron to the place where he can find the
Dauphin. But the authorities demand that one of my fol-
lowers, one who has once been a member of the League of
the Scarlet Pimpernel, shall accompany me on this expedi-
tion. I therefore ask you ' — or ' desire you ' or ' beg you '
— whichever you prefer, Sir Percy . . ."

" * Ask you ' will do quite nicely. This is really very
interesting, you know."

". . . 'to be prepared to join the expedition. We start
at dawn, and you would be required to be at the main gate
of the house of Justice at six o'clock precisely. I have an
assurance from the authorities that your life should be in-
violate, but if you refuse to accompany me, the guillotine
will await me on the morrow.' "

" ' The guillotine will awa't me on the morrow.' That
sounds quite cheerful, does it not, M. Chambertin?" said
the prisoner, who had not evinced the slightest surprise
at the wording of the letter whilst he wrote at the
other's dictation. " Do you know, I quite enjoyed writ-
ing this letter; it so reminded me of happy days in Bou-
logne."

Chauvelin pressed his lips together. Truly now he felt
that a retort from him would have been undignified, more
especially as just at this moment there came from the guard-
room the sound of men's voices talking and laughing, the
occasional clang of steel, or of a heavy boot against the
tiled floor, the rattling of dice, or a sudden burst of laughter

853 ELDORADO

— sounds, in fact, that betokened the presence of a number
of soldiers close b).

Chauvelin contented himself with a nod in die direction
of the guard-room.

" The conditions are somewhat different now," he said
placidly, " from those that reigned in Boulogne. But will
you not sign your letter, Sir Percy ? "

" With pleasure, sir," responded Blakeney, as with an
elaborate flourish of the pen he appended his name to the
missive.

Chauvelin was watching him with eyes that would have
shamed a lynx by their keenness. He took up the com-
pleted letter, read it through very carefully, as if to find
some hidden meaning behind the very words which he
himself had dictated; he studied the signature, and looked
vainly for a mark or a sign that might convey a different
sense to that which he had intended. Finally, finding none,
he folded the letter up with his own hand, and at once
slipped it in the pocket of his coat

" Take care, M. Chambertin," said Blakeney lightly ; " it
will burn a hole in that elegant vest of yours."

" It will have no time to do that, Sir Percy," retorted
Chauvelin blandly ; " an you will furnish me with citizen
St Just's present address, I will myself convey the letter
to him at once."

" At this hour of the night? Poor old Armand, he'll be
abed. But his address, sir, is No. 32, Rue de la Croix
Blanche, on the first floor, the door on your right as you
mount the stairs; you know the room well, citizen Chauve-
lin ; you have been in it before. And now," he added with
a loud and ostentatious yawn, " shall we all to bed? We
start at dawn, you said, and I am so d d fatigued."

Frankly, he did not look it now. Chauvelin himself,

CAPITULATION 368

despite his matured plans, despite all the precautions that
he meant to take for the success of this gigantic scheme,
felt a sudden strange sense of fear creeping into his bones.
Half an hour ago he had seen a man in what looked like
the last stage of utter physical exhaustion, a hunched up
figure, listless and limp, hands that twitched nervously, the
face as of a dying man. Now those outward symptoms
were still there certainly; the face by the light of the lamp
still looked livid, the lips bloodless, the hands emaciated and
waxen, but the eyes 1 — they were still hollow, with heavy
lids still purple, but in their depths there was a curious,
mysterious light, a look that seemed to see something that
was hidden to natural sight.

Citizen Chauvelin thought that Heron, too, must be con-
scious of this, but the Committee's agent was sprawling
on a chair, sucking a short-stemmed pipe, and gazing with
entire animal satisfaction on the prisoner.

" The most perfect piece of work we have ever accom-
plished, you and I, citizen Chauvelin," he said complacently.

" You think that everything is quite satisfactory? " asked
the other with anxious stress on his words.

" Everything, of course. Now you see to the letter. I
will give final orders for to-morrow, but I shall sleep in the
guard-room."

" And I on that inviting bed," interposed the prisoner
lightly, as he rose to his feet. " Your servant, citizens I "

He bowed his head slightly, and stood by the table whilst
the two men prepared to go. Chauvelin took a final long
look at the man whom he firmly believed he had at last
brought down to abject disgrace.

Blakeney was standing erect, watching the two retreating
figures — one slender hand was on the table. Chauvelin
saw that it was leaning rather heavily, as if for support,

354

ELDORADO

and that even whilst a final mocking laugh sped him and
his colleague on their way, the tall figure of the conquered
lion swayed like a stalwart oak that is forced to bend to
the mighty fury of an all-compelling wind.

With a sigh of content Chauvelin took his colleague by
the arm, and together the two men walked out of the cell.

CHAPTER XXXIX

KILL HIM!

Two hours after midnight Armand St. Just was wakened
from sleep by a peremptory pull at his bell. In these days
in Paris but one meaning could as a rule be attached to such
a summons at this hour of the night, and Armand, though
possessed of an unconditional certificate of safety, sat up
in bed, quite convinced that for some reason which would
presently be explained to him he had once more been placed
on the list of the " suspect," and that his trial and con-
demnation on a trumped-up charge would follow in due
course.

Truth to tell, he felt no fear at the prospect, and only
a very little sorrow. The sorrow was not for himself; he
regretted neither life nor happiness. Life had become hate-
ful to him since happiness had fled with it on the dark
wings of dishonour; sorrow such as he felt was only for
Jeanne 1 She was very young, and would weep bitter tears.
She would be unhappy, because she truly loved him, and
because this would be the first cup of bitterness which life
was holding out to her. But she was very young, and
sorrow would not be eternal. It was better so. He,
Armand St. Just, though he loved her with an intensity of
passion that had been magnified and strengthened by his
own overwhelming shame, had never really brought his be-
loved one single moment of unalloyed happiness.

From the very first day when he sat beside her in the
tiny boudoir of the Square du Roule, and the heavy foot-

356 ELDORADO

fall of Heron and his bloodhounds broke in on their first
kiss, down to this hour which he believed struck his own
death-knell, his love for her had brought more tears to her
dear eyes than smiles to her exquisite mouth.

Her he had loved so dearly, that for her sweet sake he
had sacrificed honour, friendship and truth • to free her, as
he believed, from the hands of impious brutes he had done
a deed that cried Cain-like for vengeance to the very throne
of God. For her he had sinned, and because of that sin,
even before it was committed, their love had been blighted,
and happiness had never been theirs.

Now it was all over. He would pass out of her life,
up the steps of the scaffold, tasting as he mounted them the
most entire happiness that he had known since that awful
day when he became a Judas.

The peremptory summons, once more repeated, roused
him from his meditations. He lit a candle; and without
troubling to slip any of his clothes on, he crossed the nar-
row ante-chamber, and opened the door that gave on the
landing.

" In the name of the people 1 "

He had expected to hear not only those words, but also
the grounding of arms and the brief command to halt.
He had expected to see before him the white facings of the
uniform of the Garde de Paris, and to feel himself roughly
pushed back into his lodging preparatory to the search be-
ing made of all his effects and the placing of irons on his
wrists.

Instead of this, it was a quiet, dry voice that said with-
out undue harshness :

" In the name of the people ! "

And instead of the uniforms, the bayonets and the scar-
let caps with tricolour cockades, he was confronted by a

KILL HIM! 357

slight, sable-clad figure, whose face, lit by the flickering
light of the tallow candle, looked strangely pale and ear-
nest.

" Citizen Chauvelin ! " gasped Armand, more surprised
than frightened at this unexpected apparition.

" Himself, citizen, at your service," replied Chauvelin
with his quiet, ironical manner. "I am the bearer of a
letter for you from Sir Percy Blakeney. Have I your
permission to enter ? "

Mechanically Armand stood aside, allowing the other
man to pass in. He closed the door behind his nocturnal
visitor, then, taper in hand, he preceded him into the inner
room.

It was the same one in which a fortnight ago a fight-
ing lion had been brought to his knees. Now it lay
wrapped in gloom, the feeble light of the candle only light-
ing Armand's face and the white frill of his shirt. The
young man put the taper down on the table and turned to
his visitor.

" Shall I light the lamp?" he asked.

" Quite unnecessary," replied Chauvelin curtly. " I
have only a letter to deliver, and after that to ask you one
brief question."

From the pocket of his coat he drew the letter which
Blakeney had written an hour ago.

" The prisoner wrote this in my presence," he said as he
handed the letter over to Armand. " Will you read it ? "

Armand took it from him, and sat down close to the
table; leaning forward he held the paper near the light,
and began to read. He read the letter through very slowly
to the end, then once again from the beginning. He was
trying to do that which Chauvelin had wished to do an hour
ago ; he was trying to find the inner meaning which he felt

SB8 ELDORADO

must inevitably lie behind these words which Percy had
written with his own hand.

That these bare words were but a blind to deceive the
enemy Armand never doubted for a moment In this he
was as loyal as Marguerite would have been herself. Never
for a moment did the suspicion cross his mind that
Blakeney was about to play the part of a coward, but he,
Armand, felt that as a faithful friend and follower he ought
by instinct to know exactly what his chief intended, what
he meant him to do.

Swiftly his thoughts new back to that other letter, the
one which Marguerite had given him — the letter full of
pity and of friendship which had brought him hope and
a joy and peace which he had thought at one time that he
would never know again. And suddenly one sentence in
that letter stood out so clearly before his eyes that it blurred
the actual, tangible ones on the paper which even now
rustled in his hand.

But if at any time you receive another letter from me — be
its contents what they may — act in accordance with the let-
ter, but send a copy of it at once to Ffoulkes or to Marguerite.

Now everything seemed at once quite clear; his duty,
his next actions, every word that he would speak to
Chauvelia Those that Percy had written to him were
already indelibly graven on his memory.

Chauvelin had waited with his usual patience, silent and
imperturbable, while the young man read. Now when he
saw that Armand had finished, he said quietly :

" Just one question, citizen, and I need not detain you
longer. But first will you kindly give me back that letter?
It is a precious document which will for ever remain in the
archives of the nation."

But even while he spoke Armand, with one of those quick

KILL HIM! 859

intuitions that come in moments of acute crisis, had done
just that which he felt Blakeney would wish him to do.
He had held the letter close to the candle. A corner of
the thin crisp paper immediately caught fire, and before
Chauvelin could utter a word of anger, or make a move-
ment to prevent the conflagration, the flames had licked up
fully one half of the letter, and Armand had only just time
to throw the remainder on the floor and to stamp out the
blaze with his foot.

" I am sorry, citizen," he said calmly ; " an accident."

" A useless act of devotion," interposed Chauvelin, who
already had smothered the oath that had risen to his lips.
" The Scarlet Pimpernel's actions in the present matter
will not lose their merited publicity through the foolish de-
struction of this document."

" I had no thought, citizen," retorted the young man,
"of commenting on the actions of my chief, or of trying
to deny them that publicity which you seem to desire for
them almost as much as I do."

*' More, citizen, a great deal more I The impeccable
Scarlet Pimpernel, the noble and gallant English gentle-
man, has agreed to deliver into our hands the uncrowned
King of France — in exchange for his own life and free-
dom. Methinks that even his worst enemy would not wish
for a better ending to a career of adventure, and a reputa-
tion for bravery unequalled in Europe. But no more of
this, time is pressing, I must help citizen Heron with his
final preparations for his journey. You, of course, citizen
St. Just, will act in accordance with Sir Percy Blakeney's
wishes ? "

" Of course," replied Armand.

" You will present yourself at the main entrance of the
house of Justice at six o'clock this morning."

860 ELDORADO

" I will not fail you."

" A coach will be provided for you. You will follow
the expedition as hostage for the good faith of your chief."

" I quite understand."

" H'ra ! That's brave ! You have no fear, citizen St.
Just?"

" Fear of what, sir?"

" You will be a hostage in our hands, citizen; your life
a guarantee that your chief has no thought of playing us
false. Now I was thinking of — of certain events —
which led to the arrest of Sir Percy Blakeney."

" Of my treachery, you mean," rejoined the young man
calmly, even though his face had suddenly become pale as
death. " Of the damnable lie wherewith you cheated me
into selling my honour, and made me what I am — a crea-
ture scarce fit to walk upon this earth."

" Oh I " protested Chauvelin blandly.

" The damnable lie," continued Armand more vehe-
mently, " that hath made me one with Cain and the IscarioL
When you goaded me into the hellish act, Jeanne Lange
was already free."

" Free — but not safe."

" A lie, man ! K lie ! For which you are thrice accursed.
Great God, is it not you that should have cause for fear?
Methinks were I to strangle you now I should suffer less
of remorse."

" And would be rendering your ex-chief but a sorry
service," interposed Chauvelin with quiet irony. " Sir
Percy Blakeney is a dying man, citizen St. Just; he'll be
a dead man at dawn if I do not put in an appearance by
six o'clock this morning. This is a private understanding
between citizen Heron and myself. We agreed to it before
I came to see you."

KILL HIM! 861

" Oh, you take care of your own miserable skin well
enough I But you need not be afraid of me — I take my
orders from my chief, and he has not ordered me to kill
you."

" That was kind of him. Then we may count on you?
You are not afraid? "

" Afraid that the Scarlet Pimpernel would leave me
in the lurch because of the immeasurable wrong I have done
to him ? " retorted Armand, proud and defiant in the name
of his chief. " No, sir, I am not afraid of that ; I have
spent the last fortnight in praying to God that my life
might yet be given for his."

"H'm! I think it most unlikely that your prayers will
be granted, citizen; prayers, I imagine, so very seldom
are; but I don't know, I never pray myself. In your case,
now, I should say that you have not the slightest chance
of the Deity interfering in so pleasant a manner. Even
were Sir Percy Blakeney prepared to wreak personal re-
venge on you, he would scarcely be so foolish as to risk
the other life which we shall also hold as hostage for his
good faith."

"The other life?"

" Yes. Your sister, Lady Blakeney, will also join the
expedition to-morrow. This Sir Percy does not yet know ;
but it will come as a pleasant surprise for him. At the
slightest suspicion of false play on Sir Percy's part, at his
slightest attempt at escape, your life and that of your sister
are forfeit ; you will both be summarily shot before his eyes.
I do not think that I need be more precise, eh, citizen St
Just ? "

The young man was quivering with passion. A terrible
loathing for himself, for his crime which had been the
precursor of this terrible situation, filled his soul to the

363 ELDORADO

verge of sheer physical nausea. A red film gathered be-
fore his eyes, and through it he saw the grinning face of
the inhuman monster who had planned this hideous,
abominable thing. It seemed to him as if in the silence
and the hush of the night, above the feeble, flickering flame
that threw weird shadows around, a group of devils were
surrounding htm, and were shouting, " Kill him 1 Kill
him now t Rid the earth of this hellish brute ! "

No doubt if Chauvelin had exhibited the slightest sign
of fear, if he had moved an inch towards the door, Armand,
blind with passion, driven to madness by agonising remorse
more even than by rage, would have sprung at his enemy's
throat and crushed the life out of him as he would out of
a venomous beast. But the man's calm, his immobility, re-
called St Just to himself. Reason, that had almost yielded
to passion again, found strength to drive the enemy back
this time, to whisper a warning, an admonition, even a re-
minder. Enough harm, God knows, had been done by
tempestuous passion already. And God alone knew what
terrible consequences its triumph now might bring in its
trial, and striking on Armand's buzzing ears Chauvelin' s
words came back as a triumphant and mocking echo :

" He'll be a dead man at dawn if I do not put in an ap-
pearance by six o'clock."

The red film lifted, the candle flickered low, the devils
vanished, only the pale face of the Terrorist gazed with
gentle irony out of the gloom.

" I think that I need not detain you any longer, citizen
St. Just," he said quietly; " you can get three or four hours'
rest yet before you need make a start, and I still have a
great many things to see to. I wish you good-night,
citizen."

" Good-ntght," murmured Armand mechanically.

KILL HIM! 868

He took the candle and escorted his visitor back to the
door. He waited on the landing, taper in hand, while
Chauvelin descended the narrow, winding stairs.

There was a light in the concierge's lodge. No doubt
the woman had struck it when the nocturnal visitor had
first demanded admittance. His name and tricolour scarf
of office had ensured him the full measure of her atten-
tion, and now she was evidently sitting up waiting to let
him out.

St. Just, satisfied that Chauvelin had finally gone, now
turned back to his own rooms.

CHAPTER XL

GOD HELP US ALL

He carefully locked the outer door. Then he lit the
lamp, for the candle gave but a flickering light, and he had
some important work to do.

Firstly, he picked up the charred fragment of the let-
ter, and smoothed it out carefully and reverently as he
would a relic. Tears had gathered in his eyes, but he was
not ashamed of them, for no one saw them ; but they eased
his heart, and helped to strengthen his resolve. It was a
mere fragment that had been spared by the flame, but Ar-
mand knew every word of the letter by heart

He had pen, ink and paper ready to his hand, and from
memory wrote out a copy of it. To this he added a cover-
ing letter from himself to Marguerite:

This — which I had from Percy through the hands of
Chauvelin — I neither question nor understand. . . . He
wrote the letter, and 1 have no thought but to obey. In his
previous letter to me he enjoined me, if ever he wrote to me
again, to obey him implicitly, and to communicate with you.
To both these commands do I submit with a glad heart. But
of this must I give you warning, little mother — Chauvelin
desires you also to accompany us to-morrow. . . . Percy does
not know this yet, else he would never start But those fiends
fear that his readiness is a blind . . . and that he has some
plan in his head for his own escape and the continued safety
of the Dauphin. . . . This plan they hope to frustrate through
holding you and me as hostages for his good faith. God only
knows how gladly I would give my life for my chief . . . but

GOD HELP US ALL S65

your life, dear little mother ... is sacred above all. ... I
think that I do right in warning you. God help us all.

Having written the letter, he sealed it, together with the
copy of Percy's letter which he had made. Then he took
up the candle and went downstairs.

There was no longer any light in the concierge's lodge,
and Armand had some difficulty in making himself heard.
At last the woman came to the door. She was tired and
cross after two interruptions of her night's rest, but she had
a partiality for her young lodger, whose pleasant ways and
easy liberality had been like a pale ray of sunshine through
the squalor of every-day misery.

" It is a letter, dioyenne" said Armand, with earnest en-
treaty, " for my sister. She lives in the Rue de Charonne,
near the fortifications, and must have it within an hour; it
is a matter of life and death to her, to me, and to another
who is very dear to us both."

The concierge threw up her hands in horror.

" Rue de Charonne, near the fortifications," she ex-
claimed, "and within an hourl By the Holy Virgin,
citizen, that is impossible. Who will take it? There is
no way."

*' A way must be found, dtoyenne," said Armand firmly,
" and at once ; it is not far, and there are five golden louis
waiting for the messengerl "

Five golden louis I The poor, hardworking woman's
eyes gleamed at the thought. Five louis meant food for
at least two months if one was careful, and —

" Give me the letter, citizen," she said, " time to slip on
a warm petticoat and a shawl, and I'll go myself. It's not
fit for the boy to go at this hour."

" You will bring me back a line from my sister in re-
ply to this," said Armand, whom circumstances had at last

906 ELDORADO

rendered cautious. ** Bring it up 10 mr rooms that I may
give yon the five louis in exchange."

He waited while the woman slipped back into her room.
She heard him speaking to her boy; the same lad who a
fortnight ago had taken the treacherous letter which bad
lured Blakeney to the bouse into the fatal ambuscade that
had been prepared for him. Everything reminded Armand
of that awful night, every hour that be bad since spent in
the bouse had been racking torture to him. Now at last
be was to leave it, and on an errand which might help to
ease the load of remorse from his heart.

The woman was soon ready. Armand gave Iter final
directions as to how to find the house; then she took the
letter and promised to be very quick, and to bring bade a
reply from the lady.

Armand accompanied her to the door. The night was
dark, a thin drizzle was falling; be stood and watched onto
the woman's rapidly walking figure was lost in the misty
gloom.

Then with a heavy sigh he once more went within.

CHAPTER XLI

WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD

In a small upstairs room in the Rue de Charonne, above
the shop of Lucas the old-clothes dealer, Marguerite sat
with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Armand's letter, with its mes-
sage and its warning, lay open on the table between them,
and she had in her hand the sealed packet which Percy had
given her just ten days ago, and which she was only to
open if all hope seemed to be dead, if nothing appeared to
stand any longer between that one dear life and irretrievable
shame.

A small lamp placed on the table threw a feeble yellow
light on the squalid, ill-furnished room, for it lacked still an
hour or so before dawn. Armand's concierge had brought
her lodger's letter, and Marguerite had quickly despatched
a brief reply to him, a reply that held love and also en-
couragement.

Then she had summoned Sir Andrew. He never had a
thought of leaving her during these days of dire trouble,
and he had lodged all this while in a tiny room on the top-
most floor of this house in the Rue de Charonne.

At her call he had come down very quickly, and now
they sat together at the table, with the oil-lamp illumining
their pale, anxious faces; she the wife and he the friend
holding a consultation together in this most miserable hour
that preceded the cold wintry dawn.

Outside a thin, persistent rain mixed with snow pattered
against the small window panes, and an icy wind found out

368 ELDORADO

all the crevices in the worm-eaten woodwork that would
afford it ingress to the room. But neither Marguerite nor
Ffoulkes was conscious of the cold. They had wrapped
their cloaks round their shoulders, and did not feel the
chill currents of air that caused the lamp to flicker and to
smoke.

" I can see now," said Marguerite in that calm voice
which comes so naturally in moments of infinite despair —
" I can see now exactly what Percy meant when he made
me promise not to open this packet until it seemed to me
— to me and to you, Sir Andrew — that he was about to
play the part of a coward. A coward! Great God!"
She checked the sob that had risen to her throat, and con-
tinued in the same calm manner and quiet, even voice:

" You do think with me, do you not, that the time has
come, and that we must open this packet? "

" Without a doubt, Lady Blakeney,'" replied Ffoulkes
with equal earnestness. " I would stake my life that al-
ready a fortnight ago Blakeney had that same plan in his
mind which he has now matured. Escape from that awful
Conciergerie prison with all the precautions so carefully
taken against it was impossible. I knew that alas 1 from
the first But in the open all might yet be different. I'll
not believe it that a man like Blakeney is destined to perish
at the hands of those curs."

She looked on her loyal friend with tear-dimmed eyes
through which shone boundless gratitude and heart-broken
sorrow.

He had spoken of a fortnight I It was ten days since
she had seen Percy. It had then seemed as if death had
already marked him with its grim sign. Since then she
had tried to shut away from her mind the terrible visions
which her anguish constantly conjured up before her of his

WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD 869

growing weakness, of the gradual impairing of that bril-
liant intellect, the gradual exhaustion of that mighty phys-
ical strength.

" God bless you, Sir Andrew, for your enthusiasm and
for your trust," she said with a sad little smite ; " but for
you I should long ago have lost all courage, and these last
ten days — what a cycle of misery they represent — would
have been maddening but for your help and your loyalty.
God knows I would have courage for everything in life,
for everything save one, but just that, his death ; that would
be beyond my strength — neither reason nor body could
stand it. Therefore, I am so afraid, Sir Andrew," she
added piteously.

"Of what, Lady Blakeney?"

" That when he knows that I too am to go as hostage,
as Armand says in his letter, that my life is to be guarantee
for his, I am afraid that he will draw back — that he will —
Oh, my God I " she cried with sudden fervour, " tell me
what to do I"

"Shall we open the packet?" asked Ffoulkes gently,
" and then just make up our minds to act exactly as Blake-
ney has enjoined us to do, neither more nor less, but just
word for word, deed for deed, and I believe that that will
be right — whatever may betide — in the end."

Once more his quiet strength, his earnestness and his
faith comforted her. She dried her eyes and broke open
the seal. There were two separate letters in the packet, one
unaddressed, obviously intended for her and Ffoulkes, the
other was addressed to M. le baron Jean de Batz, 15, Rue
St. Jean de Latran a Paris.

" A letter addressed to that awful Baron de Batz," said
Marguerite, looking with puzzled eyes on the paper as she
turned it over and over in her hand, "to that bombastic

370 ELDORADO

windbag! I know him and his ways well! What can
Percy have to say to him ? "

Sir Andrew too looked puzzled. But neither of them
had the mind to waste time in useless speculations. Mar-
guerite unfolded the letter which was intended for her, and
after a final look on her friend, whose kind face was quiver-
ing with excitement, she began slowly to read aloud :

I need not ask either of you two to trust me, knowing that
you will. But I could not die inside this hole like a rat in a
trap — I had to try and free myself, at the worst to die in
the open beneath God's sky. You two will understand, and
understanding you will trust me to the end. Send the en-
closed letter at once to its address. And you, Ffoulkes, my
most sincere and most loyal friend, I beg with all my soul to
see to the safety of Marguerite. Armand will stay by me —
but you, Ffoulkes, do not leave her, stand by her. As soon
as you read this letter — and you will not read it until both
she and you have felt that hope has fled and I myself am
about to throw up the sponge — try and persuade her to make
for the coast as quickly as may be. ... At Calais you can
open up communications with the Day-Dream in the usual
way, and embark on her at once. Let no member of the
League remain on French soil one hour longer after that
Then tell the skipper to make for Le Portal — the place which
he knows — and there to keep a sharp outlook for another
three nights. After that make straight for home, for it will
be no use waiting any longer. I shall not come. These meas-
ures are for Marguerite's safety, and for you all who are in
France at this moment. Comrade, I entreat you to look on
these measures as on my dying wish. To de Batz I have
given rendezvous at the Chapelle of the Holy Sepulchre, just
outside the park of the Chateau d'Ourde. He will help me
to save the Dauphin, and if by good luck he also helps me to
save myself I shall be within seven leagues of Le Portal, and,
with the Liane frozen as she ts I could reach the coast

WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD 371

But Marguerite's safety I leave in your hands, Ffoulkes.
Would that I could look more clearly into the future, and
know that those devils will not drag her into danger. Beg
her to start at once for Calais immediately you have both read
this. I only beg, I do not command. I know that you,
Ffoulkes, will stand by her whatever she may wish to do.
God's blessing be for ever on you both.

Marguerite's voice died away in the silence that still lay
over this deserted part of the great city and in this squalid
house where she and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had found
shelter these last ten days. The agony of mind which they
had here endured, never doubting, but scarcely ever hoping,
had found its culmination at last in this final message,
which almost seemed to come to them from the grave.

It had been written ten days ago. A plan had then ap-
parently formed in Percy's mind which he had set forth
during the brief half-hour's respite which those fiends had
once given him. Since then they had never given him ten
consecutive minutes' peace; since then ten days had gone
by; how much power, how much vitality had gone by too
on the leaden wings of all those terrible hours spent in
solitude and in misery?

" We can but hope, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes after a while, " that you will be allowed out of
Paris; but from what Armand says — "

" And Percy does not actually send me away," she re-
joined with a pathetic little smile.

" No. He cannot compel you, Lady Blakeney. You
are not a member of the League."

" Oh, yes, I am ! " she retorted firmly ; " and I have sworn
obedience, just as all of you have done. I will go, just as
he bids me, and you, Sir Andrew, you will obey him too? "

" My orders are to stand by you. That is an easy task."

872 ELDORADO

"You know where this place is?" she asked — "the
Chateau d'Ourde?"

"Oh, yes, we all know it! It is empty, and the park
is a wreck; the owner fled from it at the very outbreak
of the revolution; he left some kind of steward nominally
in charge, a curious creature, half imbecile ; the chateau and
the chapel in the forest just outside the grounds have
oft served Blakeney and all of us as a place of refuge on
our way to the coast."

" But the Dauphin is not there?" she said.

" No. According to the first letter which you brought
me from Blakeney ten days ago, and on which I acted, Tony,
who has charge of the Dauphin, must have crossed into
Holland with his little Majesty to-day."

" I understand," she said simply. *' But then — this let-
ter to de Batz?"

" Ah, there I am completely at seal But I'll deliver it,
and at once too, only I don't like to leave you. Will you
let me get you out of Paris first? I think just before dawn
it could be done. We can get the cart from Lucas, and if
we could reach St. Germain before noon, I could come
straight back then and deliver the letter to de Batz. This,
I feel, I ought to do myself; but at Achard's farm I would
know that you were safe for a few hours."

" I will do whatever you think right, Sir Andrew," she
said simply ; " my will is bound up with Percy's dying wish.
God knows I would rather follow him now, step by step, —
as hostage, as prisoner — any way so long as I can see him,
but — "

She rose and turned to go, almost impassive now in that
great calm born of despair.

A stranger seeing her now had thought her indifferent.
She was very pale, and deep circles round her eyes told of

WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD 873

sleepless nights and days of mental misery, but otherwise
there was not the faintest outward symptom of that terrible
anguish which was rending her heartstrings. Her lips did
not quiver, and the source of her tears had been dried up
ten days ago.

" Ten minutes and 111 be ready, Sir Andrew," she said.
" I have but few belongings. Will you the while see Lucas
about the cart?"

He did as she desired. Her calm in no way deceived
him ; he knew that she must be suffering keenly, and would
suffer more keenly still while she would be trying to efface
her own personal feelings all through that coming dreary
journey to Calais.

He went to see the landlord about the horse and cart,
and a quarter of an hour later Marguerite came downstairs
ready to start. She found Sir Andrew in close converse
with an officer of the Garde de Paris, whilst two soldiers
of the same regiment were standing at the horse's head.

When she appeared in the doorway Sir Andrew came
at once up to her.

" It is just as I feared, Lady Blakeney," he said ; " this
man has been sent here to take charge of you. Of course,
he knows nothing beyond the fact that his orders are to
convey you at once to the guard-house of the Rue Ste. Anne,
where he is to hand you over to citizen Chauvelin of the
Committee of Public Safety."

Sir Andrew could not fail to see the look of intense re-
lief which, in the midst of all her sorrow, seemed suddenly
to have lighted up the whole of Marguerite's wan face.
The thought of wending her own way to safety whilst
Percy, mayhap, was fighting an uneven fight with death
had been well-nigh intolerable; but she had been ready to
obey without a murmur. Now Fate and the enemy himself

374 ELDORADO

had decided otherwise. She felt as if a load had been
lifted from her heart

" I will at once go and find de Batz," Sir Andrew con-
trived to whisper hurriedly. " As soon as Percy's letter
is safely in his hands I will make my way northwards and
communicate with all the members of the League, on whom
the chief has so strictly enjoined to quit French soil im-
mediately. We will proceed to Calais first and open up
communication with the Day-Dream in the usual way.
The others had best embark on board her, and the skipper
shall then make for the known spot of Le Portel, of which
Percy speaks in his letter. I myself will go by land to
Le Portel, and thence, if I have no news of you or of the
expedition, I will slowly work southwards in the direction
of the Chateau d'Ourde. That is all that I can do. If
you can contrive to let Percy or even Armand know my
movements, do so by all means. I know that I shall be
doing right, for, in a way, I shall be watching over you
and arranging for your safety, as Blakeney begged me to
do. God bless you. Lady Blakeney, and God save the
Scarlet Pimpernel I "

He stooped and kissed her hand, and she intimated to
the officer that she was ready. He had a hackney coach
waiting for her lower down the street. To it she walked
with a firm step, and as she entered it she waved a last
farewell to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

CHAPTER XLII

THE GUARD-HOUSE OF THE RUE STE. ANNE

The little cortege was turning out of the great gates of
the house of Justice. It was intensely cold ; a bitter north-
easterly gale was blowing from across the heights of Mont-
martre, driving sleet and snow and half-frozen rain into
the faces of the men, and finding its way up their sleeves,
down their collars and round the knees of their threadbare
breeches.

Armand, whose fingers were numb with the cold, could
scarcely feel the reins in his hands. Chauvelin was riding
close beside him, but the two men had not exchanged one
word since the moment when the small troop of some twenty
mounted soldiers had filed up inside the courtyard, and
Chauvelin, with a curt word of command, had ordered one
of the troopers to take Armand's horse on the lead.

A hackney coach brought up the rear of the cortege, with
a man riding at either door and two more following at a
distance of twenty paces. Heron's gaunt, ugly face,
crowned with a battered, sugar-loaf hat, appeared from
time to time at the window of the coach. He was no horse-
man, and, moreover, preferred to keep the prisoner closely
under his own eye. The corporal had told Armand that
the prisoner was with citizen Heron inside the coach — in
irons. Beyond that the soldiers could tell him nothing;
they knew nothing of the object of this expedition.
Vaguely they might have wondered in their dull minds
why this particular prisoner was thus being escorted out

ST6 ELDORADO

of the Conciergerie prison with so much paraphernalia and
such an air of mystery, when there were thousands of
prisoners in the city and the provinces at the present mo-
ment who anon would be bundled up wholesale into carts
to be dragged to the guillotine like a flock of sheep to the
butchers.

But even if they wondered they made no remarks among
themselves. Their faces, blue with the cold, were the per-
fect mirrors of their own unconquerable stolidity.

The tower clock of Notre Dame struck seven when the
small cavalcade finally moved slowly out of the monumen-
tal gates. In the east the wan light of a February morn-
ing slowly struggled out of the surrounding gloom. Now
the towers of many churches loomed ghostlike against the
dull grey sky, and down below, on the right, the frozen
river, like a smooth sheet of steel, wound its graceful curves
round the islands and past the facade of the Louvres palace,
whose walls looked grim and silent, like the mausoleum of
the dead giants of the past.

All around the great city gave signs of awakening; the
business of the day renewed its course every twenty-four
hours, despite the tragedies of death and of dishonour that
walked with it hand in hand. From the Place de la Revolu-
tion the intermittent roll of drums came from time to time
with its muffled sound striking the ear of the passer-by.
Along the quay opposite an open-air camp was already
astir ; men, women, and children engaged in the great task
of clothing and feeding the people of France, armed against
tyranny, were bending to their task, even before the wintry
dawn had spread its pale grey tints over the narrower
streets of the city.

Armand shivered under his cloak. This silent ride be-
neath the laden sky, through the veil of half-frozen rain

THE GUARD-HOUSE OF STE. ANNE 977

and snow, seemed like a dream to him. And now, as the
outriders of the little cavalcade turned to cross the Pont
au Change, he saw spread out on his left what appeared
like the living panorama of these three weeks that had just
gone by. He could see the house of the Rue St. Germain
I'Auxerrois where Percy had lodged before he carried
through the rescue of the little Dauphin. Armand could
even see the window at which the dreamer had stood, weav-
ing noble dreams that his brilliant daring had turned into
realities, until the hand of a traitor had brought him down
to — ■ to what ? Armand would not have dared at this mo-
ment to look back at that hideous, vulgar hackney coach
wherein that proud, reckless adventurer, who had defied
Fate and mocked Death, sat, in chains, beside a loathsome
creature whose very propinquity was an outrage.

Now they were passing under the very house on the
Quai de la Ferraille, above the saddler's shop, the house
where Marguerite had lodged ten days ago, whither Ar-
mand had come, trying to fool himself into the belief that
the love of "little mother" could be deceived into blind-
ness against his own crime. He had tried to draw a veil
before those eyes which he had scarcely dared encounter,
but he knew that that veil must lift one day, and then a
curse would send him forth, outlawed and homeless, a wan-
derer on the face of the earth.

Soon as the little cortege wended its way northwards it
filed out beneath the walls of the Temple prison ; there was
the main gate with its sentry standing at attention, there
the archway with the guichet of the concierge, and beyond
it the paved courtyard. Armand closed his eyes deliber-
ately ; he could not bear to look.

No wonder that he shivered and tried to draw his cloak
closer around him. Every stone, every street corner was

378 ELDORADO

full of memories. The chin that struck to the very marrow
of his bones came from no outward cause; it was the very
hand of remorse that, as it passed over him, froze the blood
in his veins and made the rattle of those wheels behind
him sound like a hellish knell.

At last the more closely populated quarters of the city
were left behind. On ahead the first section of the guard
had turned into the Rue St Anne. The houses became
more sparse, intersected by narrow pieces of terrains
vagues, or small weed-covered bits of kitchen garden.

Then a halt was called.

It was quite light now. As light as it would ever be
beneath this leaden sky. Rain and snow still fell in gusts,
driven by the blast.

Some one ordered Armand to dismount It was probably
Chauvelin. He did as he was told, and a trooper led him
to the door of an irregular brick building that stood isolated
on the right, extended on either side by a low wall, and
surrounded by a patch of uncultivated land, which now
looked like a sea of mud.

On ahead was the line of fortifications dimly outlined
against the grey of the sky, and in between brown, sodden
earth, with here and there a detached house, a cabbage
patch, a couple of windmills deserted and desolate.

The loneliness of an unpopulated outlying quarter of the
great mother city, a useless limb of her active body, an
ostracised member of her vast family.

Mechanically Armand had followed the soldier to the
door of the building. Here Chauvelin was standing, and
bade him follow. A smell of hot coffee hung in the dark
narrow passage in front. Chauvelin led the way to a room
on the left

Still that smell of hot coffee. Ever after it was as-

THE GUARD-HOUSE OF STE. ANNE 379

sociated in Armand's mind with this awful morning in the
guard-house of the Rue Ste. Anne, when the rain and snow
beat against the windows, and he stood there in the low
guard-room shivering and half-numbed with cold.

There was a table in the middle of the room, and on it
stood cups of hot coffee. Chauvelin bade him drink, sug-
gesting, not unkindly, that the warm beverage would do
him good. Armand advanced further into the room, and
saw that there were wooden benches all round against the
wall. On one of these sat his sister Marguerite.

When she saw him she made a sudden, instinctive move-
ment to go to him, but Chauvelin interposed in his usual
bland, quiet manner.

" Not just now, citizeness," he said.

She sat down again, and Armand noted how cold and
stony seemed her eyes, as if life within her was at a stand-
still, and a shadow that was almost like death had atrophied
every emotion in her.

" I trust you have not suffered too much from the cold,
Lady Blakeney," resumed Chauvelin politely; "we ought
not to have kept you waiting here for so long, but delay
at departure is sometimes inevitable."

She made no reply, only acknowledging his reiter-
ated inquiry as to her comfort with an inclination of the
head.

Armand had forced himself to swallow some coffee, and
for the moment he felt less chilled. He held the cup be-
tween his two hands, and gradually some warmth crept into
his bones.

" Little mother," he said in English, " try and drink some
of this, it will do you good."

" Thank you, dear," she replied. " I have had some. I
am not cold."

380 ELDORADO

Then a door at the end of the room was pushed open,
and Heron stalked in.

" Are we going to be all day in this confounded hole ? "
he queried roughly.

Armand, who was watching his sister very closely, saw
that she started at the sight of the wretch, and seemed im-
mediately to shrink still further within herself, whilst her
eyes, suddenly luminous and dilated, rested on him like
those of a captive bird upon an approaching cobra.

But Chauvelin was not to be shaken out of bis suave
manner.

" One moment, citizen Heron," he said ; " this coffee is
very comforting. Is the prisoner with you?" he added
lightly.

Heron nodded in the direction of the other room.

" In there," he said curtly.

" Then, perhaps, if you will be so good, citizen, to invite
him thither, I could explain to him his future position and
our own."

Heron muttered something between his fleshy lips, then
he turned back towards the open door, solemnly spat twice
on the threshold, and nodded his gaunt head once or twice
in a manner which apparently was understanded from with-
in.

" No, sergeant, I don't want you," he said gruffly ; " only
the prisoner."

A second or two later Sir Percy Blakeney stood in the
doorway ; his hands were behind his back, obviously hand-
cuffed, but he held himself very erect, though it was clear
that this caused him a mighty effort. As soon as he had
crossed the threshold his quick glance had swept right
round the room.

He saw Armand, and his eyes lit up almost imperceptibly.

THE GUARD-HOUSE OF STE. ANNE 881

Then he caught sight of Marguerite, and his pale face
took on suddenly a more ashen hue.

Chauvelin was watching him with those keen, light-
coloured eyes of his. Blakeney, conscious of this, made no
movement, only his lips tightened, and the heavy lids fell
over the hollow eyes, completely hiding their glance.

But what even the most astute, most deadly enemy could
not see was that subtle message of understanding that
passed at once between Marguerite and the man she loved;
it was a magnetic current, intangible, invisible to all save
to her and to him. She was prepared to see him, prepared
to see in him all that she had feared; the weakness, the
mental exhaustion, the submission to the inevitable.
Therefore she had also schooled her glance to express to
him all that she knew she would not be allowed to say —
the reassurance that she had read his last letter, that she
had obeyed it to the last word, save where Fate and her
enemy had interfered with regard to herself.

With a slight, imperceptible movement — imperceptible
to every one save to him, she had seemed to handle a piece
of paper in her kerchief, then she had nodded slowly, with
her eyes — steadfast, reassuring — fixed upon him, and his
glance gave answer that he had understood.

But Chauvelin and Heron had seen nothing of this.
They were satisfied that there had been no communication
between the prisoner and his wife and friend.

" You are no doubt surprised, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin
after a while, " to see Lady Blakeney here. She, as well
as citizen St. Just, will accompany our expedition to the
place where you will lead us. We none of us know where
that place is — citizen Heron and myself are entirely in
your hands — you might be leading us to certain death, or
again to a spot where your own escape would be an easy

382 ELDORADO

matter to yourself. You will not be surprised, therefore,
that we have thought fit to take certain precautions both
against any little ambuscade which you may have prepared
for us, or against your making one of those daring at-
tempts at escape for which tht noted Scarlet Pimpernel is
so justly famous."

He paused, and only Heron's low chuckle of satisfaction
broke the momentary silence that followed. Blakeney made
no reply. Obviously he knew exactly what was coming.
He knew Chauvelin and his ways, knew the kind of tortuous
conception that would find origin in his brain ; the moment
that he saw Marguerite sitting there he must have guessed
that Chauvelin once more desired to put her precious life
in the balance of his intrigues.

" Citizen Heron is impatient, Sir Percy," resumed Chau-
velin after a while, "so I must be brief. Lady Blakeney,
as well as citizen St Just, will accompany us on this ex-
pedition to whithersoever you may lead us. They will be
the hostages which we will hold against your own good
faith. At the slightest suspicion — a mere suspicion per-
haps — that you have played us false, at a hint that you
have led us into an ambush, or that the whole of this ex-
pedition has been but a trick on your part to effect your own
escape, or if merely our hope of finding Capet at the end of
our journey is frustrated, the lives of our two hostages be-
long to us, and your friend and your wife will be sunn
marily shot before your eyes."

Outside the rain pattered against the window-panes, the '
gale whistled mournfully among the stunted trees, but with- .
in this room not a sound stirred the deadly stillness oi-tf x
air, and yet at this moment hatred and love, savage 1 $t
and sublime self-abnegation — the most powerful passic mi
the heart of man can know — held three men here tj *■

THE GUARD-HOUSE OF STE. ANNE 883

chained; each a slave to his dominant passion, each ready to
stake his all for the satisfaction of his master. Heron was
the first to speak.

" Well ! " he said with a fierce oath, " what are we waiting
for? The prisoner knows how he stands. Now we can go."

" One moment, citizen," interposed Chauvelin, his quiet
manner contrasting strangely with his colleague's savage
mood. " You have quite understood, Sir Percy," he con-
tinued, directly addressing the prisoner, " the conditions un-
der which we are all of us about to proceed on this jour-
ney?"

"All of us?" said Blakeney slowly. "Are you taking
it for granted then that I accept your conditions and that
I am prepared to proceed on the journey?"

" If you do not proceed on the journey," cried Heron
with savage fury, " I'll strangle that woman with my own
hands — now!"

Blakeney looked at him for a moment or two through
half-closed lids, and it seemed then to those who knew him
well, to those who loved him and to the man who hated
him, that the mighty sinews almost cracked with the pas-
sionate desire to kill. Then the sunken eyes turned slowly
to Marguerite, and she alone caught the look — it was a
mere flash, of a humble appeal for pardon.

It was all over in a second ; almost immediately the ten-
sion on the pale face relaxed, and into the eyes there came
that look of acceptance — nearly akin to fatalism — an ac-
ceptance of which the strong alone are capable, for with
them it only comes in the face of the inevitable.

Now he shrugged his broad shoulders, and once more
turning to Heron he said quietly :

" You leave me no option in that case. As you have
remarked before, citizen Heron, why should we wait any
longer? Surely we can now go."

CHAPTER XLIII

THE DREAKY JOUKNEY

Rain t Rain I Rain ! Incessant, monotonous and
dreary 1 The wind had changed round to the southwest
It blew now in great gusts that sent weird, sighing sounds
through the trees, and drove the heavy showers into the faces
of the men as they rode on, with heads bent forward against
the gale.

The rain-sodden bridles slipped through their hands,
bringing out sores and blisters on their palms ; the horses
were fidgety, tossing their heads with wearying persistence
as the wet trickled into their ears, or the sharp, intermittent
hailstones struck their sensitive noses.

Three days of this awful monotony, varied only by the
halts at wayside inns, the changing of troops at one of the
guard-houses on the way, the reiterated commands given
to the fresh squad before starting on the next lap of this
strange, momentous way; and all the while, audible above
the clatter of horses' hoofs, the rumbling of coach-wheels
— two closed carriages, each drawn by a pair of sturdy
horses, which were changed at every halt A soldier on
each box urged them to a good pace to keep up with the
troopers, who were allowed to go at an easy canter or light
jog-trot, whatever might prove easiest and least fatiguing.
And from time to time Heron's shaggy, gaunt bead would
appear at the window of one of the coaches, asking the way,
the distance to the next city or to the nearest wayside inn;

THE DREARY JOURNEY 386

cursing the troopers, the coachman, his colleague and every
one concerned, blaspheming against the interminable length
of the road, against the cold and against the wet.

Early in the evening on the second day of the journey
he had met with an accident. The prisoner, who presum-
ably was weak and weary, and not over steady on his feet,
had fallen up against him as they were both about to re-en-
ter the coach after a halt just outside Amiens, and citizen
Heron had lost his footing in the slippery mud of the road.
His head came in violent contact with the step, and his
right temple was severely cut. Since then he had been
forced to wear a bandage across the top of his face, under
his sugar-loaf hat, which had added nothing to his beauty,
but a great deal to the violence of his temper. He wanted
to push the men on, to force the pace, to shorten the halts ;
but Chauvelin knew better than to allow slackness and dis-
content to follow in the wake of over-fatigue.

The soldiers were always well rested and well fed, and
though the delay caused by long and frequent halts must
have been just as irksome to him as it was to Heron, yet he
bore it imperturbably, for he would have had no use on
this momentous journey for a handful of men whose
enthusiasm and spirit had been blown away by the rough-
ness of the gale, or drowned in the fury of the constant
downpour of rain.

Of all this Marguerite had been conscious in a vague,
dreamy kind of way. She seemed to herself like the spec-
tator in a moving panoramic drama, unable to raise a finger
or to do aught to stop that final, inevitable ending, the
cataclysm of sorrow and misery that awaited her, when the
dreary curtain would fall on the last act, and she and all
the other spectators — Armand, Chauvelin, Heron, the
soldiers — would slowly wend their way home, leaving

886 ELDORADO

the principal actor behind the fallen curtain, which never
would be lifted again.

After that first halt in the guard-room of the Rue Ste.
Anne she had been bidden to enter a second hackney coach,
which, followed the other at a distance of fifty metres or
so, and was, like that other, closely surrounded by a squad
of mounted men.

Armand and Chauvelin rode in this carriage with her;
all day she sat looking out on the endless monotony of the
road, on the drops of rain that pattered against the window-
glass, and ran down from it like a perpetual stream of tears.

There were two halts called during the day — one for
dinner and one midway through the afternoon — when she
and Armand would step out of the coach and be led —
always with soldiers close around them — to some wayside
inn, where some sort of a meal was served, where the
atmosphere was close and stuffy and smelt of onion soup
and of stale cheese.

Armand and Marguerite would in most cases have a room
to themselves, with sentinels posted outside the door, and
they would try and eat enough to keep body and soul to-
gether, for they would not allow their strength to fall
away before the end of the journey was reached.

For the night halt — once at Beauvais and the second
night at Abbeville — they were escorted to a house in the
interior of the city, where they were accommodated with
moderately clean lodgings. Sentinels, however, were al-
ways at their doors ; they were prisoners in all but name,
and had little or no privacy; for at night they were both
so tired that they were glad to retire immediately, and to
lie down on the hard beds that had been provided for them,
even if sleep fled from their eyes, and their hearts and souls

THE DREARY JOURNEY 387

were flying through the city in search of him who filled
their every thought.

Of Percy they saw little or nothing. In the daytime
food was evidently brought to him in the carriage, for they
did not see him get down, and on those two nights at Beau-
vais and Abbeville, when they caught sight of him stepping
out of the coach outside the gates of the barracks, he was
so surrounded' by soldiers that they only saw the top of
his head and his broad shoulders towering above those of
the men.

Once Marguerite had put all her pride, all her dignity
by, and asked citizen Chauvelin for news of henhusband.

" He is well and cheerful, Lady Blakeney," he had replied
with his sarcastic smile. "Ah I" he added pleasantly,
"those English are remarkable people. We, of Gallic
breed, will never really understand them. Their fatalism
is quite Oriental in its quiet resignation to the decree of
Fate. Did you know, Lady Blakeney, that when Sir Percy
was arrested he did not raise a hand. I thought, and so
did my colleague, that he would have fought like a lion.
And now, that he has no doubt realised that quiet sub-
mission will serve him best in the end, he is as calm on this
journey as I am myself. In fact," he concluded com-
placently, " whenever I have succeeded in peeping into the
coach I have invariably found Sir Percy Blakeney fast
asleep."

" He — " she murmured, for it was so difficult to speak
to this callous wretch, who was obviously mocking her in
her misery — " he — you — you are not keeping him in
irons ? "

" No I Oh no! " replied Chauvelin with perfect urbanity.
" You see, now that we have you. Lady Blakeney, and

'•itiswn a». *iut Trth a *t have no reason to fear rim that
*Ju*>ii-* ■''momri *' il r nirtt hunaeif away. "

A hot rwnrr had risen ii AniBHiri'i lins. T"ne warm
I j;tin htood in him rvheiled against this muierzhie anan nn
me man'* meert in the face if itargaerrte'i m^rm**! Bur
her r^raining; gentie hand had already -jressed his. What
WM me use of protesting, at instating tins brntE. who cared
ncthirtff f«-.r the misery which he had caused so long- as
he gained hii own ends?

And Armanrt heid his tongue and tried to curb his tem-
per, rncd V> ciilt^vare a little of that fatalism which Chau-
vlin had **id was characteristic of the English. He sat
rv^ide hi* siiter, longing to comfort her. yet feeling mat
hit very presence near her was an outrage and a sacrilege.
£he spoke so seldom to him, even when they were alone,
(hat at times me aw ful thought which had more than once
fmt\4 birth in hi* weary brain became crystallised and
nv>r e real. Did Marguerite guess ? Had she the slightest
suspicion that the awful cataclysm to which they were
fending with every revolution of the creaking coach-wheels
bad been brought about by her brother's treacheroos hand?

And when that thought had lodged itself quite snugfy in
hiit mind he began to wonder whether H would not be
far more simple, far more easy, to end his miserable life
in some manner that might suggest itself on the way.
When the coach crossed one of those dilapidated, parapet-
le« bridges, over abysses fifty metres deep, it might be so
e»«y to throw open the carriage door and to take one
final Jump into eternity.

So ea*y — but so damnably cowardly.

Marguerite's near presence quickly brought him back
to himself. His life was no longer his own to do with as

THE DREABY JOURNEY S89

he pleased; it belonged to the chief whom he had betrayed,
to the sister whom he must endeavour to protect.

Of Jeanne now he thought but little. He had put even
the memory of her by — tenderly, like a sprig of lavender
pressed between the faded leaves of his own happiness.
His hand was no longer fit to hold that of any pure woman
— his hand had on it a deep stain, immutable, like the brand
of Cain.

Yet Marguerite beside him held his hand and together
they looked out on that dreary, dreary road and listened
to the patter of the rain and the rumbling of the wheels
of that other coach on ahead — and it was all so dismal
and so horrible, the rain, the soughing of the wind in the
stunted trees, this landscape of mud and desolation, this
eternally grey sky.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE HALT AT CRECY

"Now, then, citizen, don't go to sleep; this is Crecy,
our last halt i "

Armand woke up from his last dream. They had been
moving steadily on since they left Abbeville soon after
dawn ; the rumble of the wheels, the swaying and rocking
of the carriage, the interminable patter of the rain had lulled
him into a kind of wakeful sleep.

Chauvelin had already alighted from the coach. He
was helping Marguerite to descend. Armand shook the
stiffness from his limbs and followed in the wake of his
sister. Always those miserable soldiers round them, with
their dank coats of rough blue cloth, and the red caps on
their heads! Armand pulled Marguerite's hand through
his arm, and dragged her with him into the house.

The small city lay damp and grey before them; the
rough pavement of the narrow street glistened with the
wet, reflecting the dull, leaden sky overhead; the rain beat
into the puddles; the slate-roofs shone in the cold wintry
light.

This was Crecy! The last halt of the journey, so Chau-
velin had said. The party had drawn rein in front of a
small one-storied building that had a wooden verandah run-
ning the whole length of its front

The usual low narrow room greeted Armand and Mar-
guerite as they entered ; the usual mildewed walls, with the
colour wash flowing away in streaks from the unsympa-
thetic beam above; the same device, " Liberte, Egalite,

THE HALT AT CRECY 891

Fraternite!" scribbled in charcoal above the black iron
stove; the usual musty, close atmosphere, the usual smell
of onion and stale cheese, the usual hard straight benches
and central table with its soiled and tattered cloth.

Marguerite seemed dazed and giddy; she had been five
hours in that stuffy coach with nothing to distract her
thoughts except the rain-sodden landscape, on which she
had ceaselessly gazed since the early dawn.

Armand led her to the bench, and she sank down on it,
numb and inert, resting her elbows on the table and her
head in her hands.

"If it were only all overl " she sighed involuntarily.
" Armand, at times now I feel as if I were not really sane
— as if my reason had already given way! Tell me, do
I seem mad to you at times?"

He sat down beside her and tried to chafe her little cold
hands.

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for
permission Chauvelin entered the room.

" My humble apologies to you, Lady Blakeney," he said
in his usual suave manner, " but our worthy host informs
me that this is the only room in which he can serve a meal.
Therefore I am forced to intrude my presence upon you."

Though he spoke with outward politeness, his tone had
become more peremptory, less bland, and he did not await
Marguerite's reply before he sat down opposite to her
and continued to talk airily.

" An ill-conditioned fellow, our host," he said — " quite
reminds me of our friend Brogard at the Chat Gris in
Calais. You remember him, Lady Blakeney? "

" My sister is giddy and over-tired," interposed Armand
firmly. " I pray you, citizen, to have some regard for her."

" All regard in the world, citizen St. Just," protested

892 ELDORADO

Chauvelin jovially. " Methought that those pleasant remi-
niscences would cheer her. Ah! here comes the soup," he
added, as a man in blue blouse and breeches, with sabots
on his feet, slouched into the room, carrying a tureen which
he incontinently placed upon the table. " I feel sure that
in England Lady Blakeney misses our excellent croutes-
aurpot, the glory of our bourgeois cookery — Lady Blake-
ney, a little soup?"

" I thank you, sir," she murmured.

" Do try and eat something, little mother," Armand
whispered in her ear; " try and keep up your strength for
his sake, if not for mine."

She turned a wan, pale face to him, and tried to smile.

" I'll try, dear," she said.

" You have taken bread and meat to the citizens in the
coach ? " Chauvelin called out to the retreating figure of
mine host.

" H'm ! " grunted the latter in assent

" And see that the citizen soldiers are well fed, or there
will be trouble."

" H'm I " grunted the man again. After which he banged
the door to behind him.

"Citizen Heron is loath to let the prisoner out of his
sight," explained Chauvelin lightly, " now that we have
reached the last, most important stage of our journey, so
he is sharing Sir Percy's mid-day meal in the interior of
the coach."

He ate his soup with a relish, ostentatiously paying many
small attentions to Marguerite all the time. He ordered
meat for her — bread, butter — asked if any dainties could
be got He was apparently in the best of tempers.

After he had eaten and drunk he rose and bowed cere-
moniously to her.

THE HALT AT CRECY 898

" Your pardon. Lady Blakeney," he said, " but I must
confer with the prisoner now, and take from him full direc-
tions for the continuance of our journey. After that I go
to the guard-house, which is some distance from here,
right at the other end of the city. We pick up a fresh
squad here, twenty hardened troopers from a cavalry regi-
ment usually stationed at Abbeville. They have had work
to do in this town, which is a hot-bed of treachery. I must
go inspect the men and the sergeant who will be in com-
mand. Citizen Heron leaves all these inspections to me;
he likes to stay by his prisoner. In the meanwhile you
will be escorted back to your coach, where I pray you to
await my arrival, when we change guard first, then proceed
on our way."

Marguerite was longing to ask him many questions; once
again she would have smothered her pride and begged for
news of her husband, but Chauvelin did not wait. He
hurried out of the room, and Armand and Marguerite could
hear him ordering the soldiers to take them forthwith back
to the coach.

As they came out of the inn they saw the other coach
some fifty metres further up the street The horses that
had done duty since leaving Abbeville had been taken out,
and two soldiers in ragged shirts, and with crimson caps
set jauntily over their left ear, were leading the two fresh
horses along. The troopers were still mounting guard
round both the coaches ; they would be relieved presently.

Marguerite would have given ten years of her life at
this moment for the privilege of speaking to her husband,
or even of seeing him — of seeing that he was well. A
quick, wild plan sprang up in her mind that she would bribe
the sergeant in command to grant her wish while citizen
Chauvelin was absent. The man had not an unkind face,

Q9i ELDORADO

and he must be very poor — people in France were very
poor these days, though the rich had been robbed and
luxurious homes devastated ostensibly to help the poor.

She was about to put this sudden thought into execution
when Heron's hideous face, doubly hideous now with that
bandage of doubtful cleanliness cutting across his brow,
appeared at the carriage window.

He cursed violently and at the top of his voice.

" What are those d d aristos doing out there ? " he

shouted.

" Just getting into the coach, citizen," replied the ser-
geant promptly.

And Armand and Marguerite were immediately ordered
back into the coach.

Heron remained at the window for a few moments
longer; he had a toothpick in his hand which he was using
very freely.

" How much longer are we going to wait in this cursed
hole?" he called out to the sergeant.

" Only a few moments longer, citizen. Citizen Chau-
velin will be back soon with the guard."

A quarter of an hour later the clatter of cavalry horses
on the rough, uneven pavement drew Marguerite's atten-
tion. She lowered the carriage window and looked out
Chauvelin had just returned with the new escort. He
was on horseback; his horse's bridle, since he was but
an indifferent horseman, was held by one of the troop-
ers.

Outside the inn he dismounted; evidently he had taken
full command of the expedition, and scarcely referred to
Heron, who spent most of his time cursing at the men or
the weather when he was not lying half-asleep and partially
drunk in the inside of the carriage.

THE HALT AT CKECY S9B

The changing of the guard was now accomplished quietly
and in perfect order. The new escort consisted of twenty
mounted men, including a sergeant and a corporal, and of
two drivers, one for each coach. The cortlge now was
filed up in marching order ; ahead a small party of scouts,
then the coach with Marguerite and Armand closely sur-
rounded by mounted men, and at a short distance the second
coach with citizen Hiron and the prisoner equally well
guarded.

Chauvelin superintended all the arrangements himself.
He spoke for some few moments with the sergeant, also
with the driver of his own coach. He went to the window
of the other carriage, probably in order to consult with
citizen Heron, or to take final directions from the prisoner,
for Marguerite, who was watching him, saw him standing
on the step and leaning well forward into the interior, whilst
apparently he was taking notes on a small tablet which he
had in his hand.

A small knot of idlers had congregated in the narrow
street ; men in blouses and boys in ragged breeches lounged
against the verandah of the inn and gazed with inexpres-
sive, stolid eyes on the soldiers, the coaches, the citizen who
wore the tricolour scarf. They had seen this sort of thing
before now — aristos being conveyed to Paris under arrest,
prisoners on their way to or from Amiens. They saw Mar-
guerite's pale face at the carriage window. It was not the
first woman's face they had seen under like circumstances,
and there was no special interest about this aristo. They
were smoking or spitting, or just lounging idly against the
balustrade. Marguerite wondered if none of them had
wife, sister, or mother, or child; if every sympathy, every
kind of feeling in these poor wretches had been atrophied
by misery or by fear.

896 ELDORADO

At last everything was in order and the small parry ready
to start

" Does any one here know the Chapel of the Holy Sepul-
chre, close by the park of the Chateau d'Ourde?" asked
Chauvelin, vaguely addressing the knot of gaffers that
stood closest to him.

The men shook their heads. Some had dimly heard of
the Chateau d'Ourde ; it was some way in the interior of the
forest of Boulogne, but no one knew about a chapel ; people
did not trouble about chapels nowadays. With the indif-
ference so peculiar to local peasantry, these men knew no
more of the surrounding country than the twelve or fifteen
league circle that was within a walk of their sleepy little
town.

One of the scouts on ahead turned in his saddle and spoke
to citizen Chauvelin :

" I think I know the way pretty well; citizen Chauvelin,"
he said ; " at any rate, I know it as far as the forest of
Boulogne."

Chauvelin referred to his tablets.

" That's good," he said ; " then when you reach the mile-
stone that stands on this road at the confine of the forest,
bear sharply to your right and skirt the wood until you
see the hamlet of — Le — something. Le — Le — yes —
i-e Crocq — that's it in the valley below."

" I know Le Crocq, I think," said- the trooper.

" Very well, then ; at that point it seems that a wide road
strikes at right angles into the interior of the forest; you
follow that until a stone chapel with a colonnaded porch
stands before you on your left, and the walls and gates of
a park on your right. That is so, is it not, Sir Percy ? "
he added, once more turning towards the interior of the
coach.

THE HALT AT CRECY 897

Apparently the answer satisfied him, for he gave the
quick word of command, "En avant!" then turned back
towards his own coach and finally entered it

" Do you know the Chateau d'Ourde, citizen St. Just? "
he asked abruptly as soon as the carriage began to move.

Armand woke — as was habitual with him these days —
from some gloomy reverie.

" Yes, citizen," he replied. " I know it."

" And the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre? "

" Yes. I know it too."

Indeed, he knew the chateau well, and the little chapel in
the forest, whither the fisher-folk from Portel and Boulogne
came on a pilgrimage once a year to lay their nets on the
miracle-working relic. The chapel was disused now.
Since the owner of the chateau had fled no one had tended
it, and the fisher-folk were afraid to wander out, lest their
superstitious faith be counted against them by the authori-
ties, who had abolished le bon Dieu.

But Armand had found refuge there eighteen months
ago, on his way to Calais, when Percy had risked his life
in order to save him — Armand — from death. He could
have groaned aloud with the anguish of this recollection.
But Marguerite's aching nerves had thrilled at the name.

The Chateau d'Ourde! The Chapel of the Holy Sepul-
chre I That was the place which Percy had mentioned in
his letter, the place where he had given rendezvous to de
Batz. Sir Andrew had said that the Dauphin could not
possibly be there, yet Percy was leading his enemies thither,
and had given the rendezvous there to de Batz. And this
despite that whatever plans, whatever hopes, had been born
in his mind when he was still immured in the Conciergerie
prison must have been set at naught by the clever counter-
plot of Chauvelin and Heron.

308 ELDORADO

" At the merest suspicion that you have played us false,
at a hint that you have led us into an ambush, or if merely
our hopes of finding Capet at the end of the journey are
frustrated, the lives of your wife and of your friend are
forfeit to us, and they will both be shot before your eyes."

With these words, with this precaution, those cunning
fiends had effectually not only tied the schemer's hands,
but forced him either to deliver the child to them or to
sacrifice his wife and his friend.

The impasse was so horrible that she could not face it
even in her thoughts. A strange, fever-like heat coursed
through her veins, yet left her hands icy-cold; she longed
for, yet dreaded, the end of the journey — that awful
grappling with the certainty of coming death. Perhaps,
after all, Percy, too, had given up all hope. Long ago he
had consecrated his life to the attainment of his own ideals;
and there was a vein of fatalism in him; perhaps he had
resigned himself to the inevitable, and his only desire now
was to give up his life, as he had said, in the open, beneath
God's sky, to draw his last breath with the storm-clouds
tossed through infinity above him, and the murmur of the
wind in the trees to sing him to rest.

Crecy was gradually fading into the distance, wrapped
in a mantle of damp and mist. For a long while Marguer-
ite could see the sloping slate roofs glimmering like steel
in the grey afternoon light, and the quaint church tower
with its beautiful lantern, through the pierced stonework of
which shone patches of the leaden sky.

Then a sudden twist of the road hid the city from view ;
only the outlying churchyard remained in sight, with its
white monuments and granite crosses, over which the dark
yews, wet with the rain and shaken by the gale, sent showers
of diamond-like sprays.

CHAPTER XLV

THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE

Progress was not easy, and very slow along the muddy
road ; the two coaches moved along laboriously, with wheels
creaking and sinking deeply from time to time in the quag-
mire.

When the small party finally reached the edge of the
wood the greyish light of this dismal day had changed in
the west to a dull reddish glow — a glow that had neither
brilliance nor incandescence in it ; only a weird tint that
hung over the horizon and turned the distance into lines
of purple.

The nearness of the sea made itself already felt; there
was a briny taste in the damp atmosphere, and the trees
all turned their branches away in the same direction against
the onslaught of the prevailing winds.

The road at this point formed a sharp fork, skirting the
wood on either side, the forest lying like a black close mass
of spruce and firs on the left, while the open expanse of
country stretched out on the right. The south-westerly
gale struck with full violence against the barrier of forest
trees, bending the tall crests of the pines and causing their
small dead branches to break and fall with a sharp, crisp
sound like a cry of pain.

The squad had been fresh at starting; now the men had
been four hours in the saddle under persistent rain and
gusty wind; they were tired, and the atmosphere of the

400 ELDORADO

close, black forest so near the road was weighing upon
their spirits.

Strange sounds came to them from out the dense network
of trees — the screeching of night-birds, the weird call of
the owls, the swift and furtive tread of wild beasts on the
prowL The cold winter and lack of food had lured the
wolves from their fastnesses — hunger had emboldened
them, and now, as gradually the grey light fled from the
sky, dismal howls could be heard in the distance, and now
and then a pair of eyes, bright with the reflection of the
lurid western glow, would shine momentarily out of the
darkness like tiny glow-worms, and as quickly vanish away.

The men shivered — more with vague superstitious fear
than with cold. They would have urged their horses on,
but the wheels of the coaches stuck persistently in the mud,
and now and again a halt had to be called so that the spokes
and axles might be cleared.

They rode on in silence. No one had a mind to speak,
and the mournful soughing of the wind in the pine-trees
seemed to check the words on every lip. The dull thud of
hoofs in the soft road, the clang of steel bits and buckles,
the snorting of the horses alone answered the wind, and
also the monotonous creaking of the wheels ploughing
through the ruts.

Soon the ruddy glow in the west faded into soft-toned
purple and then into grey ; finally that too vanished. Dark-
ness was drawing in on every side like a wide, black mantle
pulled together closer and closer overhead by invisible
giant hands.

The rain still fell in a thin drizzle that soaked through
caps and coats, made the bridles slimy and the saddles
slippery and damp. A veil of vapour hung over the horses'
cruppers, and was rendered fuller and thicker every moment

THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE 401

with the breath that came from their nostrils. The wind
no longer blew with gusty fury — its strength seemed to
have been spent with the grey light of day — but now and
then it would still come sweeping across the open country,
and dash itself upon the wall of forest trees, lashing against
the horses' ears, catching the corner of a mantle here, an
ill-adjusted cap there, and wreaking its mischievous freak
for a while, then with a sigh of satisfaction die, murmuring
among the pines.

Suddenly there was a halt, much shouting, a volley of
oaths from the drivers, and citizen Chauvelin thrust his
head out of the carriage window.

"What is it?" he asked.

" The scouts, citizen," replied the sergeant, who had
been riding close to the coach door all this while ; " they
have returned."

" Tell one man to come straight to me and report."

Marguerite sat quite still. Indeed, she had almost ceased
to live momentarily, for her spirit was absent from her
body, which felt neither fatigue, nor cold, nor pain. But
she heard the snorting of the horse close by as its rider
pulled him up sharply beside the carriage door.

"Well?" said Chauvelin curtly.

" This is the cross-road, citizen," replied the man ; " it
strikes straight into the wood, and the hamlet of Le Crocq
lies down in the valley on the right."

" Did you follow the road in the wood? "

" Yes, citizen. About two leagues from here there is a
clearing with a small stone chapel, more like a large shrine,
nestling among the trees. Opposite to it the angle of a high
wall with large wrought-iron gates at the corner, and from
these a wide drive leads through a park."

" Did you turn into the drive? "

402 ELDORADO

"Only a little way, citizen. We thought we had best
report first that all is safe."

"You saw no one?"

" No one."

" The chateau, then, lies some distance from the gates? "

" A league or more, citizen. Close to the gates there are
outhouses and stabling, the disused buildings of the home
farm, I should say."

" Good! We are on the right road, that is clear. Keep
ahead with your men now, but only some two hundred
metres or so. Stay! " he added, as if on second thoughts,
" Ride down to the other coach and ask the prisoner if we
are on the right track."

The rider turned his horse sharply round. Marguerite
heard the clang of metal and the sound of retreating hoofs

A few moments later the man returned.

" Yes, citizen," he reported, " the prisoner says it is quite
right. The Chateau d'Ourde lies a full league from its
gates. This is the nearest road to the chapel and the
chateau. He says we should reach the former in half an
hour. It will be very dark in there," he added" with a
significant nod in the direction of the wood.

Chauvelin made no reply, but quietly stepped out of the
coach. Marguerite watched him, leaning out of the win-
dow, following his small trim figure as he pushed his way
past the groups of mounted men, catching at a horse's bit
now and then, or at a bridle, making a way for himself
amongst the restless, champing animals, without the slight-
est hesitation or fear.

Soon his retreating figure lost its sharp outline silhouetted
against the evening sky. It was enfolded in the veil of
vapour which was blown out of the horses' nostrils or rising
from their damp cruppers; it became more vague, almost

THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE 403

ghost-like, through the mist and the fast-gathering gloom.

Presently a group of troopers hid him entirely from her
view, but she could hear his thin, smooth voice quite clearly
as he called to citizen Heron.

" We are close to the end of our journey now, citizen,"
she heard him say. "If the prisoner has not played us
false little Capet should be in our charge within the hour."

A growl not unlike those that came from out the mys-
terious depths of the forest answered him.

" If he is not," and Marguerite recognised the harsh
tones of citizen Heron — "if he is not, then two corpses
will be rotting in this wood to-morrow for the wolves to
feed on, and the prisoner will be on his way back to Paris
with me."

Some one laughed. It might have been one of the troop-
ers, more callous than his comrades, but to Marguerite the
laugh had a strange, familiar ring in it, the echo of some-
thing long since past and gone.

Then Chauvelin's voice once more came clearly to her
ear:

" My suggestion, citizen," he was saying, " is that the
prisoner shall now give me an order — couched in whatever
terms he may think necessary — but a distinct order to his
friends to give up Capet to me without any resistance. I
could then take some of the men with me, and ride as
quickly as the light will allow up to the chateau, and take
possession of it, of Capet, and of those who are with him.
We could get along faster thus. One man can give up
his horse to me and continue the journey on the box of your
coach. The two carriages could then follow at foot pace.
But I fear that if we stick together complete darkness will
overtake us and we might find ourselves obliged to pass a
very uncomfortable night in this wood."

404 ELDORADO

** I won't spend another night in this susp e nse — it would
kill me," growled Heron to the accompaniment of one of
his choicest oaths. "You mast do as you think right —
yon planned the whole of this affair — see to it that it
works out well in the end."

" How many men shall I take with me? Our advance
guard is here, of course."

" I couldn't spare you more than four more men — I
shall want the others to guard the prisoners."

" Four men will be quite sufficient, with the four of the
advance guard. That will leave you twelve men for guard-
ing your prisoners, and you really only need to guard the
woman — her life will answer for the others."

He had raised his voice when he said this, obviously in-
tending that Marguerite and Armand should hear.

" Then I'll ahead," he continued, apparently in answer
to an assent from his colleague. " Sir Percy, will you be
so kind as to scribble the necessary words on these
tablets?"

There was a long pause, during which Marguerite heard
plainly the long and dismal cry of a night bird that, mayhap,
was seeking its mate. Then Chauvelin's voice was raised
again.

" I thank you," he said ; " this certainly should be quite
effectual. And now, citizen Heron, I do not think that
under the circumstances we need fear an ambuscade or any
kind of trickery — you hold the hostages. And if by any
chance I and my men are attacked, or if we encounter
armed resistance at the chateau, I will despatch a rider back
straightway to you, and — well, you will know what to
do."

His voice died away, merged in the soughing of the wind,
drowned by the clang of metal, of horses snorting, of men

THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE 405

living and breathing. Marguerite felt that beside her Ar-
mand had shuddered, and that in the darkness his trembling
hand had sought and found hers.

She leaned well out of the window, trying to see. The
gloom had gathered more closely in, and round her the veil
of vapour from the horses' steaming cruppers hung heavily
in the misty air. In front of her the straight lines of a
few fir trees stood out dense and black against the grey-
ness beyond, and between these lines purple tints of various
tones and shades mingled one with the other, merging
the horizon line with the sky. Here and there a more
solid black patch indicated the tiny houses of the hamlet
of Le Crocq far down in the valley below; from some of
these houses small lights began to glimmer like blinking
yellow eyes. Marguerite's gaze, however, did not rest on
the distant landscape — it tried to pierce the gloom that
hid her immediate surroundings; the mounted men were
all round the coach ■. — more closely round her than the
trees in the forest. But the horses were restless, moving
all the time, and as they moved she caught glimpses of that
other coach and of Chauvelin's ghostlike figure, walking
rapidly through the mist. Just for one brief moment she
saw the other coach, and Heron's head and shoulders lean-
ing out of the window. His sugar-loaf hat was on his
head, and the bandage across his brow looked like a sharp,
pale streak below it.

" Do not doubt it, citizen Chauvelin," he called out loudly
in his harsh, raucous voice, " I shall know what to do ; the
wolves will have their meal to-night, and the guillotine will
not be cheated either.*'

Armand put his arm round his sister's shoulders and
gently drew her back into the carriage.

" Little mother," he said, " if you can think of a way

406

ELDORADO

whereby my life would redeem Percy's and yours, show
me that way now."

But she replied quietly and firmly:

" There is no way, Armand. If there is, it is in the
hands of God."

CHAPTER XLVI

OTHERS IN THE PARK

Chauvelin and his picked escort had in the meanwhile
detached themselves from the main body of the squad.
Soon the dull thud of their horses' hoofs treading the soft
ground came more softly — then more softly still as they
turned into the wood, and the purple shadows seemed to
enfold every sound and finally to swallow them completely.
Armand and Marguerite from the depth of the carriage
heard Heron's voice ordering his own driver now to take
the lead. They sat quite still and watched, and presently
the other coach passed them slowly on the road, its sil-
houette standing out ghostly and grim for a moment against
the indigo tones of the distant country.

Heron's head, with its battered sugar-loaf hat, and the
soiled bandage round the brow, was as usual out of the
carriage window. He leered across at Marguerite when
he saw the outline of her face framed by the window of
the carriage.

" Say all the prayers you have ever known, citizeness,"
he said with a loud laugh, " that my friend Chauvelin may
find Capet at the chateau, or else you may take a last look
at the open country, for you will not see the sun rise on it
to-morrow. It is one or the other, you know."

She tried not to look at him ; the very sight of him filled
her with horror — that blotched, gaunt face of his, the
fleshy lips, that hideous bandage across his face that hid

408 ELDORADO

one of his eyesl She tried not to see him and not to hear
him laugh.

Obviously he too laboured under the stress of great ex-
citement. So far everything had gone well; the prisoner
had made no attempt at escape, and apparently did not
mean to play a double game. But the crucial hour had
come, and with it darkness and the mysterious depths of
the forest with their weird sounds and sudden flashes
of ghostly lights. They naturally wrought on the nerves of
men like Heron, whose conscience might have been dormant,
but whose ears were nevertheless filled with the cries of in-
nocent victims sacrificed to their own lustful ambitions and
their blind, unreasoning hates.

He gave sharp orders to the men to close up round the
carriages, and then gave the curt word of command:

"En miontt"

Marguerite could but strain her ears to listen. All her
senses, all her faculties had merged into that of hearing,
rendering it doubly keen. It seemed to her that she could
distinguish the faint sound — that even as she listened grew
fainter and fainter yet — of Chauvelin and his squad mov-
ing away rapidly into the thickness of the wood some dis-
tance already ahead.

Close to her there was the snorting of horses, the clang-
ing and noise of moving mounted men. Heron's coach had
taken the lead; she could hear the creaking of its wheels,
the calls of the driver urging his beasts.

The diminished party was moving at foot-pace in the
darkness that seemed to grow denser at every step, and
through that silence which was so full of mysterious sounds.

The carriage rolled and rocked on its springs ; Marguerite,
giddy and overtired, lay back with closed eyes, her hand
resting in that of Armand. Time, space and distance bad

OTHERS IN THE PARK 409

ceased to be; only Death, the great Lord of all, had re-
mained; he walked on ahead, scythe on skeleton shoulder,
and beckoned patiently, but with a sure, grim hand.

There was another halt, the coach-wheels groaned and
creaked on their axles, one or two horses reared with the
sudden drawing up of the curb.

" What is it now ? " came Heron's hoarse voice through
the darkness.

" It is pitch-dark, citizen," was the response from ahead.
" The drivers cannot see their horses' ears. They want to
know if they may light their Ian thorns and then lead their
horses,"

" They can lead their horses," replied Heron roughly,
" but I'll have no lanthorns lighted. We don't know what
fools may be lurking behind trees, hoping to put a bullet
through my head — or yours, sergeant — we don't want
to make a lighted target of ourselves — what? But let the
drivers lead their horses, and one or two of you who are
riding greys might dismount too and lead the way — the
greys would show up perhaps in this cursed blackness."

While his orders were being carried out, he called out
once more :

" Are we far now from that confounded chapel ? "

" We can't be far, citizen ; the whole forest is not more
than six leagues wide at any point, and we have gone two'
since we turned into it."

" Hush ! " Heron's voice suddenly broke in hoarsely.
*' What was that ? Silence, I say. Damn you — can't you
hear?"

There was a hush — every ear straining to listen ; but
the horses were not still — they continued to champ their
bits, to paw the ground, and to toss their heads, impatient
to get on. Only now and again there would come a lull

410 ELDORADO

even through these sounds — a second or two, mayhap, of
perfect, unbroken silence — and then it seemed as if right
through the darkness a mysterious echo sent back those
same sounds — the champing of bits, the pawing of soft
ground, the tossing and snorting of animals, human life that
breathed far out there among the trees.

" It is citizen Chauvelin and his men," said the sergeant
after a while, and speaking in a whisper.

" Silence — I want to hear," came the curt, hoarsely-
whispered command.

Once more every one listened, the men hardly daring to
breathe, clinging to their bridles and pulling on their horses'
mouths, trying to keep them still, and again through the
night there came like a faint echo which seemed to throw
back those sounds that indicated the presence of men and
of horses not very far away.

" Yes, it must be citizen Chauvelin," said Heron at last ;
but the tone of his voice sounded as if he were anxious
and only half convinced; "but I thought he would be at
the chateau by now."

" He may have had to go at foot-pace ; it is very dark,
citizen Heron," remarked the sergeant.

" En avant, then," quoth the other; " the sooner we come
up with him the better."

And the squad of mounted men, the two coaches, the
drivers and the advance section who were leading their
horses slowly restarted on the way. The horses snorted,
the bits and stirrups clanged, and the springs and wheels
of the coaches creaked and groaned dismally as the ram-
shackle vehicles began once more to plough the carpet of
pine-needles that lay thick upon the road.

But inside the carriage Armarid and Marguerite held one
another tightly by the hand.

OTHERS IN THE PARK 411

" It is de Batz — with his friends," she whispered scarce
above her breath,

"De Batz?" he asked vaguely and fearfully, for in the
dark he could not see her face, and as he did not under-
stand why she should suddenly be talking of de Batz he
thought with horror that mayhap her prophecy anent her-
self had come true, and that her mind — wearied and over-
wrought — had become suddenly unhinged.

"Yes, de Batz," she replied. "Percy sent him a mes-
sage, through me, to meet him — here. I am not mad,
Armand," she added more calmly. " Sir Andrew took
Percy's letter to de Batz the day that we started from
Paris."

" Great God ! " exclaimed Armand, and instinctively,
with a sense of protection, he put his arms round his sister.
" Then, if Chauvelin or the squad is attacked — if — "

" Yes," she said calmly; " if de Batz makes an attack on
Chauvelin, or if he reaches the chateau first and tries to
defend it, they will shoot us . . . Armand, and Percy."

" But is the Dauphin at the Chateau d'Ourde ? "

"No, no! I think not."

" Then why should Percy have invoked the aid of de
Batz? Now, when — "

" I don't know," she murmured helplessly. " Of course,
when he wrote the letter he could not guess that they would
hold us as hostages. He may have thought that under
cover of darkness and of an unexpected attack he might
have saved himself had he been alone ; but now — now that
you and I are here — Oh 1 it is all so horrible, and I can-
not understand it all."

" Hark ! " broke in Armand, suddenly gripping her arm
more tightly.

" Halt ! " rang the sergeant's voice through the night.

418 ELDORADO

This time there was no mistaking the sound ; already it
came from no far distance. It was the sound of a man
running and panting, and now and again calling out as he
ran.

For a moment there was stillness in the very air, the wind
itself was hushed between two gusts, even the rain had
ceased its incessant pattering. Heron's harsh voice was
raised in the stillness.

" What is it now? " he demanded.

" A runner, citizen," replied the sergeant, " coming
through the wood from the right"

"From the right?" and the exclamation was accom-
panied by a volley of oaths; " the direction of the chateau?
Chauvelin has been attacked; he is sending a messenger
back to me. Sergeant — sergeant, close up round that
coach ; guard your prisoners as you value your life, and — "

The rest of his words were drowned in a yell of such
violent fury that the horses, already over-nervous and
fidgety, reared in mad terror, and the men had the greatest
difficulty in holding them in. For a few minutes noisy
confusion prevailed, until the men could quieten their
quivering animals with soft words and gentle partings.

Then the troopers obeyed, closing up round the coach
wherein brother and sister sat huddled against one another.

One of the men said under his breath :

"Ah! but the citizen agent knows how to curse! One
day he will break his gullet with the fury of his oaths."

In the meanwhile the runner had come nearer, always at
the same breathless speed.

The next moment he was challenged :

" Qui va l&f "

" A friend ! " he replied, panting and exhausted.
" Where is citizen Heron ? "

OTHERS IN THE PAHK 413

" Here ! " came the reply in a voice hoarse with passion-
ate excitement. " Come up, damn you. Be quick 1 "

" A lanthorn, citizen," suggested one of the drivers.

"No — no — not now. Here! Where the devil are
we?"

" We are close to the chapel on our left, citizen," said
the sergeant.

The runner, whose eyes were no doubt accustomed to the
gloom, had drawn nearer to the carriage.

" The gates of the chateau," he said, still somewhat
breathlessly, "are just opposite here on the right, citizen.
I have just come through them."

" Speak up, man ! " and Heron's voice now sounded as
if choked with passion. " Citizen Chauvelin sent you? "

" Yes. He bade me tell you that he has gained access to
the chateau, and that Capet is not there."

A series of citizen Heron's choicest oaths interrupted the
man's speech. Then he was curtly ordered to proceed, and
he resumed his report

" Citizen Chauvelin rang at the door of the chateau ;
after a while he was admitted by an old servant, who ap-
peared to be in charge, hut the place seemed otherwise abso-
lutely deserted — only — •"

"Only what? Go on; what is it?"

" As we rode through the park it seemed to us as if we
were being watched, and followed. We heard distinctly
the sound of horses behind and around us, but we could see
nothing; and now, when I ran back, again I heard . . .
There are others in the park to-night besides us, citizen."

There was silence after that. It seemed as if the flood
of Heron's blasphemous eloquence had spent itself at
last.

*' Others in the park ! " And now his voice was scarcely

414 ELDORADO

above a whisper, hoarse and trembling. " How many ?
Could you see?"

" No, citizen, we could not see ; but there are horsemen
lurking round the chateau now. Citizen Chauvelin took
four men into the house with him and left the others on
guard outside. He bade me tell you that it might be
safer to send him a few more men if you could spare them.
There are a number of disused farm buildings quite close
to the gates, and he suggested that all the horses be put up
there for the night, and that the men come up to the chateau
on foot ; it would be quicker and safer, for the darkness is
intense."

Even while the man spoke the forest in the distance
seemed to wake from its solemn silence, the wind on its
wings brought sounds of life and movement different from
the prowling of beasts or the screeching of night-birds. It
was the furtive advance of men, the quick whispers of com-
mand, of encouragement, of the human animal preparing
to attack his kind. But all in the distance still, all muffled,
all furtive as yet

" Sergeant 1 " It was Heron's voice, but it too was sub-
dued, and almost calm now; " can you see the chapel?"

" More clearly, citizen," replied the sergeant. " It is
on our left; quite a small building, I think."

" Then dismount, and walk all round it. See that there
are no windows or door in the rear."^

There was a prolonged silence, during which those distant
sounds of men moving, of furtive preparations for attack,
struck distinctly through the night.

Marguerite and Armand, clinging to one another, not
knowing what to think, nor yet what to fear, heard the
sounds mingling with those immediately round them, and
Marguerite murmured under her breath :

OTHERS IN THE PARK 415

" It is de Batz and some of his friends; but what can they
do ? What can Percy hope for now ? "

But of Percy she could hear and see nothing. The dark-
ness and the silence had drawn their impenetrable veil be-
tween his unseen presence and her own consciousness. She
could see the coach in which he was, but Heron's hideous
personality, his head with its battered hat and soiled band-
age, had seemed to obtrude itself always before her gaze,
blotting out from her mind even the knowledge that Percy
was there not fifty yards away from her.

So strong 1 did this feeling grow in her that presently the
awful dread seized upon her that he was no longer there;
that he was dead, worn out with fatigue and illness brought
on by terrible privations, or if not dead that he had swooned,
that he was unconscious — his spirit absent from his body.
She remembered that frightful yell of rage and hate which
Heron had uttered a few minutes ago. Had the brute
vented his fury on his helpless, weakened prisoner, and
stilled forever those lips that, mayhap, had mocked him
to the last?

Marguerite could not guess. She hardly knew what to
hope. Vaguely, when the thought of Percy lying dead be-
side his enemy floated through her aching brain, she was
almost conscious of a sense of relief at the thought that at
least he would be spared the pain of the final, inevitable
cataclysm. »

CHAPTER XLVII

THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

The sergeant's voice broke in upon her misery.

The man had apparently done as the citizen agent had
ordered, and had closely examined the little building that
stood on the left — a vague, black mass more dense than
the surrounding gloom.

"It is all solid stone, citizen," he said; "iron gates in
front, closed but not locked, rusty key in the lock, which
turns quite easily; no windows or door in the rear."

" You are quite sure? "

" Quite certain, citizen ; it is plain, solid stone at the back,
and the only possible access to the interior is through the
iron gate in front."

'* Good."

Marguerite could only just hear Heron speaking to the
sergeant. Darkness enveloped every form and deadened
every sound. Even the harsh voice which she had learned
to loathe and to dread sounded curiously subdued and un-
familiar. Heron no longer seemed inclined to storm, to
rage, or to curse. The momentary danger, the thought of
failure, the hope of revenge, had apparently cooled his tem-
per, strengthened his determination, and forced his voice
down to a little above a whisper. He gave his orders
clearly and firmly, and the words came to Marguerite on
the wings of the wind with strange distinctness, borne to
her ears by the darkness itself, and the hush that lay over
the wood.

THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHBE 417

" Take half a dozen men with you, sergeant," she heard
him say, " and join citizen Chauvelin at the chateau. You
can stable your horses in the farm buildings close by, as
he suggests and run to him on foot. You and your men
should quickly get the best of a handful of midnight
prowlers ; you are well armed and they only civilians. Tell
citizen Chauvelin that I in the meanwhile will take care of
our prisoners. The Englishman I shall put in irons and
lock up inside the chapel, with five men under the com-
mand of your corporal to guard him, the other two I will
drive myself straight to Crecy with what is left of the
escort. You understand ? "

" Yes, citizen."

" We may not reach Crecy until two hours after mid-
night, but directly I arrive I will send citizen Chauvelin
further reinforcements, which, however, I hope may not
prove necessary, but which will reach him in the early
morning. Even if he is seriously attacked, he can, with
the fourteen men he will have with him, hold out inside the
castle through the night. Tell him also that at dawn
the two prisoners who will be with me will be shot in the
courtyard of the guard-house at Crecy, but that whether he
has got hold of Capet or not he had best pick up the Eng-
lishman in the chapel in the morning and bring him straight
to Crecy, where I shall be awaiting him ready to return to
Paris. You understand ? "

" Yes, citizen."

" Then repeat what I said."

" I am to take six men with me to reinforce citizen
Chauvelin now."

" Yes."

" And you, citizen, will drive straight back to Crecy, and

418 ELDORADO

will send us further reinforcements from there, which will
reach us in the early morning."

" Yes."

" We are to hold the chateau against those unknown
marauders if necessary until the reinforcements come from
Crecy. Having routed them, we return here, pick up the
Englishman whom you will have locked up in the chapel
under a strong guard commanded by Corporal Cassard,
and join you forthwith at Crecy."

" This, whether citizen Chauvelin has got hold of Capet
or not"

" Yes, citizen, I understand," concluded the sergeant im-
perturbably ; " and I am also to tell citizen Chauvelin that
the two prisoners will be shot at dawn in the courtyard of
the guard-house at Crecy."

" Yes. That is all. Try to find the leader of the at-
tacking party, and bring him along to Crecy with the Eng-
lishman; but unless they are in very small numbers do not
trouble about the others. Now en avant; citizen Chauvelin
might be glad of your help. And — stay — order all the
men to dismount, and take the horses out of one of the
coaches, then let the men you are taking with you each
lead a horse, or even two, and stable them all in the farm
buildings. I shall not need them, and could not spare any
of my men for the work later on. Remember that, above
all, silence is the order. When you are ready to start, come
back to me here."

The sergeant moved away, and Marguerite heard him
transmitting the citizen agent's orders to the soldiers.
The dismounting was carried on in wonderful silence —
for silence had been one of the principal commands — only
one or two words reached her ears.

" First section and first half of second section fall in,

THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE ,419

right wheel. First section each take two horses on the
lead. Quietly now there ; don't tug at his bridle — let him
go."

And after that a simple report:

"All ready, citizen 1"

" Good 1 " was the response. " Now detail your cor-
poral and two men to come here to me, so that we may put
the Englishman in irons, and take him at once to the chapel,
and four men to stand guard at the doors of the other
coach."

The necessary orders were given, and after that there
came the curt command:

" En avant! "

The sergeant, with his squad and all the horses, was
slowly moving away in the night The horses' hoofs
hardly made a noise on the soft carpet of pine-needles and
of dead fallen leaves, but the champing of the bits was of
course audible, and now and then the snorting of some
poor, tired horse longing for its stable.

Somehow in Marguerite's fevered mind this departure
of a squad of men seemed like the final Bitting of her last
hope; the slow agony of the familiar sounds, the retreat-
ing horses and soldiers moving away amongst the shadows,
took on a weird significance. Heron had given his last
orders. Percy, helpless and probably unconscious, would
spend the night in that dank chapel, while she and Armand
would be taken back to Crecy, driven to death like some
insentient animals to the slaughter.

When the grey dawn would first begin to peep through
the branches of the pines Percy would be led back to Paris
and the guillotine, and she and Armand will have been
sacrificed to the hatred and revenge of brutes.

The end had come, and there was nothing more to be

422 ELDORADO

from out the darkness. At last he reached the chapel.
With one bound he was at the gate, his numb fingers fum-
bling for the lock, which he could not see.

It was a vigorous blow from Heron's fist that brought
him at last to his knees, and even then his hands did not
relax their hold; they gripped the ornamental scroll of the
gate, shook the gate itself in its rusty hinges, pushed and
pulled with the unreasoning strength of despair. He had a
sabre cut across his brow, and the blood flowed in a warm,
trickling stream down his face. But of this he was un-
conscious ; all that he wanted, all that he was striving for
with agonising heart-beats and cracking sinews, was to
get to his friend, who was lying in there unconscious,
abandoned — dead, perhaps.

" Curse you," struck Heron's voice close to his ear.
"Cannot some of you stop this raving maniac?"

Then it was that the heavy blow on his head caused him
a sensation of sickness, and he fell on his knees, still grip-
ping the ironwork.

Stronger hands than his were forcing him to loosen his
hold; blows that hurt terribly rained on his numbed fingers;
he felt himself dragged away, carried like an inert mass
further and further from that gate which he would have
given his lifeblood to force open.

And Marguerite heard all this from the inside of the
coach where she was imprisoned as effectually as was
Percy's unconscious body inside that dark chapel. She
could hear the noise and scramble, and Heron's hoarse
commands, the swift sabre strokes as they cut through the
air.

Already a trooper had clapped irons on her wrists, two
others held the carriage doors. Now Armand was lifted
back into the coach, and she could not even help to make

THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE 423

him comfortable, though as he was lifted in she heard him
feebly moaning. Then the carriage doors were banged
to again.

" Do not allow either of the prisoners out again, on
peril of your livesl" came with a vigorous curse from
Heron.

After which there was a moment's silence; whispered
commands came spasmodically in deadened sound to her
ear.

"Will the key turn?"

" Yes, citizen."

"All secure?"

" Yes, citizen. The prisoner is groaning."

"Let him groan."

"The empty coach, citizen? The horses have been
taken out."

"Leave it standing where it is, then; citizen Chauvdin
will need it in the morning."

" Armand," whispered Marguerite inside the coach, " did
you see Percy ? "

"It was so dark," murmured Armand feebly; "but I
saw him, just inside the gates, where they had laid him
down. I heard him groaning. Oh, my God!"

" Hush, dear ! " she said. " We can do nothing more,
only die, as he lived, bravely and with a smile on our lips,
in memory of him."

" Number 35 is wounded, citizen," said one of the men.

"Curse the fool who did the mischief," was the placid
response. " Leave him here with the guard."

"How many of you are there left, then?" asked the
same voice a moment later.

" Only two, citizen; if one whole section remains with
me at the chapel door, and also the wounded man."

444 ELDORADO

" Two are enough for me, and fire are not too many at
the chapel door." Awl Heron's coarse, and laugh echoed

agairm the stone walls of the little chapeL ** Now then,
one of you get into the coach, and the other go to the
horses' heads; and remember. Corporal Cassard. that yon
and your men who stay here to guard that chapel door are
answerable to the whole nation with your lives for the
safety of the Englishman."

The carriage door was thrown open, and a soldier stepped
in and sat down opposite Marguerite and Armani! Heron
in the meanwhile was apparently scrambling up the box.
Marguerite could hear him muttering curses as be groped
for the reins, and finally gathered them into his band.

The springs of the coach creaked and groaned as the
vehicle slowly swung round; the wheels ploughed deeply
through the soft carpet of dead leaves.

Marguerite felt Artnand's inert body leaning heavily
against her shoulder.

" Are you in pain, dear?" she asked softly.

He made no reply, and she thought that he had fainted.
It was better so; at least the next dreary hours would flit
by for him in the blissful state of unconsciousness. Now
at last the heavy carriage began to move more evenly. The
soldier at the horses' heads was stepping along at a rapid
pace.

Marguerite would have given much even now to look
hack once more at the dense black mass, blacker and denser
than any shadow that had ever descended before on God's
earth, which held between its cold, cruel walls all that she
loved in the world.

But her wrists were fettered by the irons, which cut
into her flesh when she moved. She could no longer lean
out of the window, and she could not even hear. The

THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE 425

whole forest was hushed, the wind was lulled to rest ; wild
beasts and night-birds were silent and still. And the
wheels of the coach creaked in the ruts, bearing Mar-
guerite with every turn further and further away from
the man who lay helpless in the chapel of the Holy
Sepulchre.

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE WAKIKG MOON

Akhand bad wakened from his attack of faintness, and
brother and sister sat close to one another, shoulder touch-
ing shoulder. That sense of neatness was the one tiny
Spark of comfort to both of them on this dreary, dreary
way.

The coach had lumbered on unceasingly since all
eternity — so it seemed to them both. Once there had
been a brief halt, when Heron's rough voice had ordered
the soldier at the horses' heads to climb on the box beside
him, and once — it had been a very little while ago — a
terrible cry of pain and terror had rung through the still-
ness of the night. Immediately after that the horses had
been put at a more rapid pace, but it had seemed to Mar-
guerite as if that one cry of pain had been repeated by
several others which sounded more feeble and soon ap-
peared to be dying away in the distance behind.

The soldier who sat opposite to them must have heard
the cry too, for he jumped up, as if wakened from sleep,
and put his head out of the window.

" Did you hear that cry, citizen ? " he asked.

But only a curse answered him, and a peremptory com-
mand not to lose sight of the prisoners by poking his head
out of the window.

"Did you hear the cry?" asked the soldier of Mar-
guerite as he made haste to obey.

"Yesl What could it be?" she murmured.
4M

THE WANING MOON 4JJ7

" It seems dangerous to drive so fast in this darkness,"
muttered the soldier.

After which remark he, with the stolidity peculiar to his
kind, figuratively shrugged his shoulders, detaching him-
self, as it were, of the whole affair.

" We should be out of the forest by now," he remarked
in an undertone a little while later; "the way seemed
shorter before."

Just then the coach gave an unexpected lurch to one
side, and after much groaning and creaking of axles and
springs it came to a standstill, and the citizen agent was
heard cursing loudly and then scrambling down from the
box.

The next moment the carriage-door was pulled open
from without, and the harsh voice called out peremptorily :

" Citizen soldier, here — quick ! — quick 1 — curse you !
— we'Ii have one of the horses down if you don't hurry!"

The soldier struggled to his feet ; it was never good to
be slow in obeying the citizen agent's commands. He was
half-asleep and no doubt numb with cold and long sitting
still ; to accelerate his movements he was suddenly gripped
by the arm and dragged incontinently out of the coach.

Then the door was slammed to again, either by a rough
hand or a sudden gust of wind, Marguerite could not tell;
she heard a cry of rage and one of terror, and Heron's
raucous curses. She cowered in the corner of the carriage
with Armand's head against her shoulder, and tried to
close her ears to all those hideous sounds.

Then suddenly all the sounds were hushed and all around
everything became perfectly calm and still — so still that
at first the silence oppressed her with a vague, nameless
dread. It was as if Nature herself had paused, that she
might listen; and the silence became more and more ab-

428 ELDORADO

solute, until Marguerite could hear Armand's soft, regu-
lar breathing close to her ear.

The window nearest to her was open, and as she leaned
forward with that paralysing sense of oppression a breath
of pure air struck full upon her nostrils and brought with
it a brtny taste as if from the sea.

It was not quite so dark; and there was a sense as of
open country stretching out to the limits of the horizon.
Overhead a vague greyish light suffused the sky, and the
wind swept the clouds in great rolling banks right across
that light.

Marguerite gazed upward with a more calm feeling that
was akin to gratitude. That pale light, though so wan
and feeble, was thrice welcome after that inky blackness
wherein shadows were less dark than the lights. She
watched eagerly the bank of clouds driven by the dying
gale.

The light grew brighter and faintly golden, now the
banks of clouds — storm-tossed and fleecy — raced past
one another, parted and reunited like veils of unseen giant
dancers waved by hands that controlled infinite space —
advanced and rushed and slackened speed again — united
and finally tore asunder to reveal the waning moon, honey-
coloured and mysterious, rising as if from an invisible
ocean far away.

The wan pale light spread over the wide stretch of
country, throwing over it as it spread dull tones of indigo
and of blue. Here and there sparse, stunted trees with
fringed gaunt arms bending to prevailing winds proclaimed
the neighbourhood of the sea.

Marguerite gazed on the picture which the waning moon
had so suddenly revealed; but she gazed with eyes that
knew not what they saw. The moon had risen on her

THE WANING MOON 429

right — there lay the east — and the coach must have been
travelling due north, whereas Crecy . . .

In the absolute silence that reigned she could perceive
from far, very far away, the sound of a church clock
striking the midnight hour; and now it seemed to her
supersensitive senses that a firm footstep was treading the
soft earth, a footstep that drew nearer — and then nearer
still.

Nature did pause to listen. The wind was hushed, the
night-birds in the forest had gone to rest. Marguerite's
heart beat so fast that its throbbings choked her, and a
dizziness clouded her consciousness.

But through this state of torpor she heard the opening
of the carriage door, she felt the onrush of that pure, briny
air, and she felt a long, burning kiss upon her hands.

She thought then that she was really dead, and that God
in His infinite love had opened to her the outer gates of
Paradise.

" My love ! " she murmured.

She was leaning back in the carriage and her eyes were
closed, but she felt that firm fingers removed the irons from
her wrists, and that a pair of warm lips were pressed there
in their stead.

" There, little woman, that's better so — is it not ? Now
let me get hold of poor old Armand I "

It was Heaven, of course, else how could earth hold
such heavenly joy ?

" Percy t " exclaimed Armand in an awed voice.

"Hush, dear!" murmured Marguerite feebly; "we are
in Heaven you and I — "

Whereupon a ringing laugh woke the echoes of the silent
night.

" In Heaven, dear heart ! " And the voice had a de-

400 ELDORADO

licious earthly ring in its whole-hearted merriment.
" Please God, you'll both be at Portel with me before
dawn."

Then she was indeed forced to believe. She put out her
hands and groped for him, for it was dark inside the car-
riage ; she groped, and felt his massive shoulders leaning
across the body of the coach, while his fingers busied them-
selves with the irons on Armand's wrist.

" Don't touch that brute's filthy coat with your dainty
fingers, dear heart," he said gaily. " Great Lord I I have
worn that wretch's clothes for over two hours ; I feel as if
the dirt had penetrated to my bones."

Then with that gesture so habitual to him he took her
head between his two hands, and drawing her to him until
the wan light from without lit up the face that he wor-
shipped, he gazed his fill into her eyes.

She could only see the outline of his head silhouetted
against the wind-tossed sky; she could not see his eyes, nor
his lips, but she felt his nearness, and the happiness of that
almost caused her to swoon.

" Come out into the open, my lady fair," he murmured,
and though she could not see, she could feel that he smiled;
" let God's pure air blow through your hair and round your
dear head. Then, if you can walk so far, there's a small
half-way house close by here. I have knocked up the none
too amiable host. You and Armand could have half an
hour's rest there before we go further on our way."

" But you, Percy? — are you safe?"

"Yes, m'dear, we are all of us safe until morning — -
time enough to reach Le Portel, and to be aboard the Day-
Drfam before mine amiable friend M. Chambertin has dis-
covered his worthy colleague lying gagged and bound in-
side the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre. By Gad! how old
Heron will curse — the moment he can open his month!"

THE WANING MOON 431

He half helped, half lifted her out of the carriage. The
strong pure air suddenly rushing right through to her
lungs made her feel faint, and she almost fell. But it was
good to feel herself falling, when one pair of arms amongst
the millions on the earth were there to receive her.

" Can you walk, dear heart ? " he asked. " Lean well
on me — it is not far, and the rest will do you good."

" But you, Percy — "

He laughed, and the most complete joy of living seemed
to resound through that laugh. Her arm was in his, and
for one moment he stood still while his eyes swept the
far reaches of the country, the mellow distance still
wrapped in its mantle of indigo, still untouched by the mys-
terious light of the waning moon.

He pressed her arm against his heart, but his right hand
was stretched out towards the black wall of the forest be-
hind him, towards the dark crests of the pines in which the
dying wind sent its last mournful sighs.

" Dear heart," he said, and his voice quivered with the
intensity of his excitement, " beyond the stretch of that
wood, from far away over there, there are eric's and moans
of anguish that come to my ear even now. But for you,
dear, I would cross that wood to-night and re-enter Paris
to-morrow. But for you, dear — but for you," he reiter-
ated earnestly as he pressed her closer to him, for a bitter
cry had risen to her lips.

She went on in silence. Her happiness was great — as
great as was her pain. She had found him again, the man
whom she worshipped, the husband whom she thought
never to see again on earth. She had found him, and not
even now — not after those terrible weeks of misery and
suffering unspeakable — could she feel that love had
triumphed over the wild, adventurous spirit, the reckless
enthusiasm, the ardour of self-sacrifice.

CHAPTER XLIX

THE LAND OF ELDORADO

It seems that in the pocket of Heron's coat there was a
letter-case with some few hundred francs. It was amusing
to think that the brute's money helped to bribe the ill-tem-
pered keeper of the half-way house to receive guests at
midnight, and to ply them well with food, drink, and the
shelter of a stuffy coffee-room.

Marguerite sat silently beside her husband, her hand in
his. Armand, opposite to them, had both elbows on the
table. He looked pale and wan, with a bandage across his
forehead, and his glowing eyes were resting on his chief.

" Yes ! you demmed young idiot," said Blakeney merrily,
" you nearly upset my plan in the end, with your yelling
and screaming outside the chapel gates."

" I wanted to get to you, Percy. I thought those brutes
had got you there inside that building."

" Not they ! " he exclaimed. " It was my friend Heron
whom they had trussed and gagged, and whom my amiable
friend M. Chambertin will find in there to-morrow morn-
ing. By Gad! I would go back if "only for the pleasure
of hearing Heron curse when first the gag is taken from
his mouth."

" But how was it all done, Percy ? And there was de
Batz — "

" De Batz was part of the scheme I had planned for mine
own escape before I knew that those brutes meant to take
Marguerite and you as hostages for my good behaviour.

THE LAND OF ELDORADO 433

What I hoped then was that under cover of a tussle or a
fight I could somehow or other contrive to slip through
their fingers. It was a chance, and you know my belief
in bald-headed Fortune, with the one solitary hair. Well,
I meant to grab that hair ; and at the worst I could but die
in the open and not caged in that awful hole like some
noxious vermin. I knew that de Batz would rise to the
bait. I told him in my letter that the Dauphin would be
at the Chateau d'Ourde this night, but that I feared the rev-
olutionary Government had got wind of this fact, and were
sending an armed escort to bring the lad away. This let-
ter Ffoulkes took to him; I knew that he would make a
vigorous effort to get the Dauphin into his hands, and that
during the scuffle that one hair on Fortune's head would
for one second only, mayhap, come within my reach. I
had so planned the expedition that we were bound to arrive
at the forest of Boulogne by nightfall, and night is always
a useful ally. But at the guard-house of the Rue Ste.
Anne I realised for the first time that those brutes had
pressed me into a tighter corner than I had pre-conceived."

He paused, and once again that look of recklessness swept
over his face, and his eyes — still hollow and circled — -
shone with the excitement of past memories.

" I was such a weak, miserable wretch, then," he said, in
answer to Marguerite's appeal. " I had to try and build
up some strength, when — Heaven forgive me for the
sacrilege — I had unwittingly risked your precious life,
dear heart, in that blind endeavour to save mine own. By
Gad! it was no easy task in that jolting vehicle with that
noisome wretch beside me for sole company ; yet I ate and
I drank and I slept for three days and two nights, until the
hour when in the darkness I struck Heron from behind,
half-strangled him first, then gagged him, and finally slipped

4M ELDORADO

into his filthy coat and put that loathsome bandage across
my head, and his battered bat above it all. The jeO be
gave when first I attacked him made every horse rear —
you must remember it — the noise effectually drown ed oar
last scuffle in the coach. Qiauvelin was the only man who
might have suspected what had occurred, but be bad gone
on ahead, and bald-headed Fortune had passed by me, and
1 had managed to grab its one hair. After that it was aD
quite easy. The sergeant and the soldiers bad seen very
little of Heron and nothing of me; it did not take a great
effort to deceive them, and the darkness of the night was
my most faithful friend. His raucous voice was not diffi-
cult to imitate, and darkness always muffles and changes
every tone. Anyway, it was not likely that those loutish
soldiers would even remotely suspect the trick that was
being played on them. The citizen agent's orders were
promptly and implicitly obeyed. The men never even
thought to wonder that after insisting on an escort of
twenty he should drive off with two prisoners and only two
men to guard them. If they did wonder, it was not theirs
to question. Those two troopers are spending an uncom-
fortable night somewhere in the forest of Boulogne, each
tied to a tree, and some two leagues apart one from the
other. And now," he added gaily, " en voiture, my fair
lady ; and you, too, Armand. Tis seven leagues to Le
Portel, and we must be there before dawn."

" Sir Andrew's intention was to make for Calais first,
there to open communication with the Day-Dream and then
for Le Portel," said Marguerite; "after that he meant to
strike back for the Chateau d'Ourde in search of me."

" Then we'll still find him at Le Portel — I shall know
how to lay hands on him; but you two must get aboard

THE LAND OF ELDORADO 4S5

the Day-Dream at once, for Ffoulkes and I can always look
after ourselves."

It was one hour after midnight when — refreshed with
food and rest — Marguerite, Armand and Sir Percy left
the half-way house. Marguerite was standing in the door-
way ready to go. Percy and Armand had gone ahead to
bring the coach along.

" Percy," whispered Armand, " Marguerite does not
know ? "

" Of course she does not, you young fool," retorted
Percy lightly. "If you try and tell her I think I would
smash your head."

" But you — " said the young man with sudden
vehemence; "can you bear the sight of me? My God!
when I think — "

" Don't think, my good Armand — not of that anyway.
Only think of the woman for whose sake you committed
a crime — if she is pure and good, woo her and win her —
not just now, for it were foolish to go back to Paris after
her, but anon, when she comes to England and all these past
days are forgotten — then love her as much as you can,
Armand. Learn your lesson of love better than I have
leamt mine; do not cause Jeanne Lange those tears of
anguish which my mad spirit brings to your sister's eyes.
You were right, Armand, when you said that I do not know
how to love I "

But on board the Day-Dream, when all danger was past,
Marguerite felt that he did.